Ash
by RebelzHeart
Summary: Peter Parker deals with the aftermath of Infinity Wars.
1. Chapter 1

His head pounds, his chest feels like it's ripping apart and then there's nothing, he's fading, falling apart, _breaking, god, no, please, Peter doesn't want to die like this..._

He rolls off the bed and into a ready fighting stance, fists up and legs bent even though he knows that it's useless (it was useless then and useless now, he faded into ash with a snap of Thanos' fingers, he was ash, nothing, disintegrating and _god_ , he _felt it..._ )

(You can't fight death.)

There's ash on his tongue and a scream on his lips even as he stumbles back onto his bed, buries his face in his hands and tries not to sob.

It doesn't change anything, the fingers on his face, the feel of the bed against his skin, not when he knows just how fragile this stability is, how fragile his life is. Not when he knows that he can disintegrate with the snap of someone's fingers, not when he remembers his back slamming and him screaming, _I got you_ as he catches the falling Guardians in his webs (but what use was pointing them when they just turned to ash afterwards, ash and ash right before his eyes even as he clings to Mr. Stark and screams _I don't want to go_ , begging even though he knows it's pointless, it's useless, he's dead, he's as good as dead, his arm _ripping away before his eyes..._ )

May comes into the room and sits down next to it and Peter buries his face in her shoulder as he sobs and tries to remember how to breathe, but every breath feels like charcoal, like gravel through his throat and on his lips and it's _everywhere_...

Peter has always been afraid of dying.

When he stood in front of a bus and thought _I have to stop it_.

When a warehouse fell on him and he screamed, _please, somebody, help_.

When his chest tightened and his legs felt like jelly and he stumbled towards Mr. Stark and sobbed and...

Peter clings to May and hides his face in her neck, it aligns in the curve of his nose and he presses his hands against her back to remind him _she's here, she's fine, she's solid flesh and bone and_...

"It's okay, Peter," May whispers, rubbing his back, "You're here, I'm here, everyone's okay."

 _They're not, they're not, they're not okay and they'll never be and he watched everyone else fade and felt himself fade even as Mr. Stark said that he was fine, he said that it would be okay but it wasn't, Peter was dying and..._

"I don't want to do that ever again," Peter's shoulders hitch and he knows how stupid he sounds, how childish and dumb, but it terrified him and what are you supposed to do when you've come back from the dead? Act normal? Peter doesn't even know what that is, anymore.

"I know, baby, it's okay, it's alright..." May presses a hand against the back of his head and he tightens his grip just a bit more, closing his eyes and letting her murmur soft reassurances.

After a long cry, he pulls away and wipes his eyes and offers May a rough apology. "Sorry," he wipes his eyes, digging the heels of his hands into them when he feels another sob wrack his chest, "I know that it scared you, too, and I shouldn't be reminding you..."

"No, Peter, sweetie, it's okay..." May wraps a hand around his and Peter shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the space on the bed just beyond May.

"Can I..." He breathes in, gulps down the air, however dusty and _wrong_ it feels, "I need to go to school."

Trepidation crosses May's features before she asks hesitantly, "Peter... sweetie... are you sure that you want to?"

"Yes, I can't..." He closes his eyes for a second and then opens them again, "I can't stay away forever. I can't just... just shut down. I have to think about the future, me skipping school like this will look bad on University applications and..."

"Peter," Concern bleeds into May's voice, "You shouldn't be thinking about that, just think about getting better, you went through a traumatic experience and..."

" _No,_ I'm..." Peter grits his teeth, "I have to go, May."

She looks so lost, but May is quick, has always been flexible, and she nods once before saying softly, "I'll go make some tea and you can bring ten dollars for lunch, okay?"

Peter picks at his wrists and tries not to twitch when he recalls that he doesn't have his web shooters on. "Yeah," he says, voice hoarse, "Thanks, May."

She kisses him on the forehead and then walks away, closing the door behind her to let him change from his pyjamas into actual clothes.

Peter waits for the door to click shut, and the attaches his web shooters to his wrists, the feeling of metal comforting despite him knowing that they can't help him in any way.

* * *

MJ gives him a cup of tea from a little cafe down the street, earl gray with two packs of sugar that probably has more cream than actual tea, just the way he likes it.

"You're back," she notes, quiet, slightly concerned. "You okay?"

"Thanks for the tea, MJ," he says instead of answering the question. From the look on her face, he supposes that it's answer enough.

"Just," she clears her throat, "Yeah. Whatever."

Throughout science, she shoots him looks of concern.

He (somehow) manages to avoid Ned for all of his first class before Ned corners him at his desk and puts down a single chocolate bar. Hershey's cookies and cream.

"I'm not making you talk, man," Ned says, fiddling with the edge of his sleeves, "But look, you've got us. If you want to watch a movie or build something with me or anything like that... I'm here for you."

"Yeah, uh," Peter clears his throat. Keeps his eyes on his desk. Very pointedly looks everywhere but at Ned. "Thanks, man."

His voice cracks a bit, and Ned seems to understand. "Yeah, well," Ned shrugs, "Don't self-destruct."

Peter stares at his hands, and the little bump of metal on his wrists, thinks, _I don't need to, I already destructed_ , and says in a hoarse voice, "Yeah, thanks."

It's cheap, stupid little words that don't really do anything. But Ned is kind, so he just squeezes Peter's arm and says, "No problem."

It's easier to pretend that everything's okay when you're in science, talking about global warming.

It's easier to pretend that everything's okay when you're in math, and your hardest problem is trinomials.

It's harder to think about your future when you're in business class and your teacher says _the most important thing is to keep a budget_ but all that you can think is _a budget won't save my life. Accounting won't save my life. Nothing can, not when something as powerful as Thanos was here, not when something_ more _powerful than Thanos could be out there, right now, and won't be so benevolent as to wipe out only half of the population..._

He eats his pizza in the first ten minutes of lunch and spends the next ten minutes throwing it up, Ned on his knees next to him and rubbing Peter's back as Peter presses his shoulder against the bathroom wall and curls up into a ball.

Peter touches his web shooters and Ned looks at them with a trace of reverence, like he's reminded all over again that Peter's Spider-man, that he can stop moving buses and lift buildings, but what's the point of that?

It won't stop death.

It won't stop Peter from dying.

It doesn't stop nightmares.

Having superpowers, Peter thinks bitterly, isn't all that it's built up to be.

* * *

Stopping crime in the streets seems laughably easy now that Peter's died.

Stopping thefts, robberies, even taking down drug cartels, it all seems so pointless when any moment, he feels like the world could dissolve into ash.

He helps a little old man across the street and he pats Peter's arm. "Didn't think I'd still be alive right now," he sighs, "Not after being turned to dust. The whole world's gone downright crazy." The old man offers Peter a wane, kind smile, "It's good to know that there are still people like you in the world after that madman wiped out half the planet."

"Yeah, uh," Peter's breath feels tight in his throat, "Thank you."

The little old man beams and Peter spends the next half hour curled up on a rooftop, trying to convince himself that it's fine, he's safe, he just needs to go back out there and it'll all be okay.

Unfortunately, it seems like he took a bit too long because the next thing he knows, Mr. Stark is landing on the roof in front of him and Peter's still curled up on the roof.

"Kid," Mr. Stark sighs, voice torn and concerned, "What are you doing up here? FRIDAY says that you've been here for the last half hour."

Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes. "I'm fine, Mr. Stark."

The lie sounds flimsy, even to him.

"Yeah, well," Mr. Stark taps his chest twice and his armour fades away, leaving only Mr. Stark in sweats and a gray t-shirt. "Tell that to me when you're not having a panic attack on the roof of my building."

"Oh," Peter says, numbly, a bit surprised. "Sorry. I'll go somewhere else."

"No," Mr. Stark says sharply, and then sighs, shaking his head. "No, it's fine, kid. I'd rather you panic on my roof than some other random roof."

"Oh, okay," Peter buries his face in his knees. "Thanks. I'm good. You can go back to whatever you were doing, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark doesn't move. He seems very unimpressed. "Look, kid, if you want to talk..."

"I'm fine," Peter cuts him off. His shoulders hitch up. "I've got enough people volunteering to talk to me."

"Yeah, well," Mr. Stark clears his throat. Sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and looks away, "I wasn't about to volunteer _myself._ " He sounds almost offended that Peter would think such a thing. "I just mean, like, therapy or something. I heard that it, uh, helps." He clears his throat a few times and then squints at Peter. "So if you'd, you know, want that, I'm willing to pay and stuff."

He clears his throat again, and Peter almost smiles.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark." He says.

Stands up and when he passes Mr. Stark, he wraps his arms around him.

He feels Mr. Stark stiffen (and who is Peter to blame him, the last time that he hugged him, he crumbled right in his arms, ash and dust and then nothing) but after a pause, hugs him back.

"Thanks," Peter whispers, again, and then pulls away and swings off, not giving Mr. Stark any time to respond.

He doesn't whoop or laugh as he swings down the buildings, he's not quite there yet.

But the feeling of the wind rushing past his ears, arms jolting as he catches himself with a web, it helps, just a bit.

And maybe he feels better.

(He doesn't know yet.)

* * *

There's this little ice cream parlour on the corner of the streets owned by two girls that Peter once saved.

They both recently graduated from University and one, being a business major, decided to help the other, a music major, to start her own company.

Peter stopped them from being assaulted by a gang once, and ever since then, he's had the offer of free ice cream hanging over him.

"Spidey!" Maya beams as he swings in just as the store closes, "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah, well," Peter rubs the back of his neck, "Do I still get free food?"

"Aw," Maya laughs, "Aren't you just adorable. Yeah, of course, just a sec, let me call Robin."

Robin comes out in a flash, wiping her hands and grinning crookedly at Peter. "Spidey," her voice is warm, and Peter hasn't realized just how much he missed their company since the last time he's been here. "Hey there, stranger."

Peter lifts his mask up to his nose and waves jauntily. "Can I get a blueberry super kid combo with marshmallows?"

"Yeah, of course," Robin watches fondly as Maya scoops the ice cream into a waffle cone. "How have you been doing?"

"Ah, great," The lie comes easily to Peter, "You know, helping old ladies, stopping robberies, saving the world. The usual."

"Right," Maya freezes halfway through scooping the ice cream, "Thanos was pretty scary, huh?"

Peter bites his tongue and shrugs, "Yeah, I mean, all the big bads are pretty intense."

It's strange, how easy it is to pretend that it was no big deal, to pretend that he can shrug off Thanos like nothing despite the fact that it's all that plagues his dreams.

Robin moves over to Maya and smooths her hair back. Kisses her on the forehead. "Pretty cool, having a real-life superhero in our little shop, hm?" She asks Maya, light, teasing. Peter's been here many times before, and they never seem to get over that little joke.

Maya presses a hand against Robin's cheek and whispers softly, "Yeah."

Peter watches with a bit of confusion until Maya gives Robin a quick peck on the lips and turns back to keep making Peter's magnificent ice cream, and then turns back to Peter. "I died during the whole half-the-world-disappears thing." Robin explains to Peter, "Maya got a real scare, there."

"Oh," Peter's throat tightens. "That sounds scary."

Robin shrugs, "Kind of hurt, but I didn't really feel anything."

Maya chews on her lower lip and shakes her head, forehead creasing and lips tightening.

"I, I get it," Peter stumbles over his words. They come out fast, chopped like he's scared that the moment he'll stop for breath, they'll laugh at him and call him stupid for his stupid fears and irrational concerns. "I died. When it happened, I mean. I was in space, with these other heroes and they were disappearing one by one and then my head hurt and I felt like passing out and I hugged Iron Man and then I just..." His voice catches, and Maya and Robin exchange glances.

"That sounds like it was terrifying," Maya says, softly, handing Peter his ice cream. "Are you getting therapy?"

Peter shakes his head, "No, I mean, it's fine, it's over, there's no threat anymore..."

"It's not about that," Robin makes a vague, aborted motion with her hand and then asks, "Can I touch you?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. Go ahead."

Robin takes Peter's hand in her's, "PTSD is still a huge factor, Spidey. I know that I'm not in harm or anything anymore... so does Maya. Doesn't mean that it doesn't still affect us badly, though. She gets panic attacks, I don't, we all deal with it differently. And we're neither the worse for it."

Peter stares at her hand, and then says hesitantly, "I thought that therapy was for people with real problems. Not imagined, stupid stuff like this."

"Do you think that I'm stupid for worrying about Robin's safety even though Thanos is defeated?" Maya asked, voice sharp.

Peter shook his head quickly, "No, of course not, what you went through was real and terrifying. You have every right to be scared. But I'm different, I..."

"No buts," Maya's voice was like steel, "You're just as human as the rest of us, Spidey."

Peter licked his ice cream and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered softly.

"Yeah, well," Maya grinned widely at him, "You did save our lives once, didn't you? We're returning the favour. Get help for your PTSD. Until then," she smirked at him, "no free ice cream."

* * *

May takes Peter to the beach for summer vacation and he freaks out the second that his feet hit the sand.

May, being perfect and understanding, leads him away with her hand in his and says softly, "It's okay, Peter, you're okay, you're here, I'm here, we're fine."

Peter grips the back of her shirt as hard as he can without ripping it and ignores the laughter nearby about him needing his mom. "Can we..." he buries his face in her shoulder, "Can we just not go to the beach? I'm sorry, May, I know that we drove all this way out here and we wanted to have a good time but I don't think..."

"No, of course," May says soothingly, "This is good. You, telling me when you have a problem, this is good. I like it." When he pulls away, she gives him an approving smile. "I'm proud of you for telling me."

Peter feels all of six but he doesn't care much anymore (what's the point when you could die any second, he thinks darkly) as he pulls May's hand into his and swings, humming an old song under his breath. "What should we do instead?" He asks.

May hums a few bars with him, and then they walk past a man with a guitar.

May crouches down and grins at him, "Hey," she beams, "Do you take requests?"

He does.

The guitarist starts playing a few Beatles songs, and May hums a bit before singing, and once they realize that more people are gathering now that there's singing, they go through a few more old songs.

Peter laughs as someone starts dancing to _Singing in the Rain_ and in that moment, coins dropping into the guitarist's case, May in her summer dress and Peter singing ridiculously off-key beside her, he is content.

* * *

Of course, it's ruined by his stupid brain.

It always is.

"I don't want this to be the last good thing that we do together," Peter says to May on the ride home.

May shoots him a concerned glance, "It won't, Peter." She says softly, and Peter's shoulders hitch up.

"You don't know that," he mutters, and her forehead creases.

"Oh, sweetie, I know that you're still scared about what happened with Thanos, but..."

Peter buries his face in his hands, "How am I not supposed to be scared?" He demands. His hands are shaking. "I loved it. It was great. But what if I never do that again? What if I die before we do something like that again? What if I face another villain that I can't defeat and I can't fight it and I die before we can do something happy like that? What if..." his voice cracks and he thinks _stupid, stupid, stupid_.

May accelerates the car, "That's it," she says, voice firm. "You're getting some therapy."

Peter flinches, "We can't, therapy's expensive, my identity..."

"Tony agreed to cover the costs."

Peter shakes his head, "But you said..."

"We're not a charity," May echoes her previous sentiment, "But I'm not going to sit on the sidelines while you so obviously self-destruct."

Peter picks at his arms, pinching his wrists and rubbing his hands against each other to ground himself. He wants to argue. To say _we can't do that_ or argue, but he's tired and he's sick of getting panic attacks over the stupidest things, so he says quietly, "Okay."

May nods. "Okay."

* * *

"So, how was therapy?" Mr. Stark asks over brunch. He picks at his bacon with a black plastic fork and seems infinitely amused by it even as he downs his glass of apple juice. "Wait, no, let me guess, you loved it."

Peter picks absentmindedly at his blueberry cheesecake, "It was cool," he says vaguely, and Mr. Stark leans back with a disappointed expression.

Peter very carefully avoids Mr. Stark's stare. He can't help it. He knows that Mr. Stark helped to save the world, save him, he has faith, but every time that he sees him, he just remembers desperation, _I don't want to die_ , remembers being stranded on a planet so remotely far, his failure against Thanos making his death only a blip against trillions across the universe, and he knows that it isn't Mr. Stark's fault, but...

"You hated it," Mr. Stark sighs.

Peter shakes his head, "No, it's great, I'm very thankful for the opportunity that..."

"Save it, kid," Mr. Stark raises a hand. "Is it making it worse?"

Peter takes a sip of his smoothie and stares at Mr. Stark's bacon. "She wants to talk about it," Peter says quietly, "And that's okay, I think that we should, but I don't know, I just feel like she thinks that I'm stupid or something for not being able to cope and she makes these noises while I talk where it's like what teachers do? Like they try to sound like they're listening but they just sound like they're trying too hard and..." he cuts himself off and bites his lips. "I'm sorry, I know that therapists are expensive and..."

"No, no, it's fine," Mr. Stark frowns, "Most people go through five or six therapists before they find the right one. You not liking your first one is totally normal, statistically speaking. I was the same."

"Oh, well," Peter fidgets, "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark grins, "Well, if you're so thankful..." he juts his fork forward to steal a bite of Peter's cheesecake, and Peter quickly counters with his own fork. "On Garde!" Mr. Stark shouts, and Peter bats away at the fork.

"I shall protect my cheesecake to the death!" Peter cries out dramatically, moving his fork up to defend his cheesecake.

Batting at Mr. Stark's fork, defending his cheesecake, Peter forgets about ash and dust. He forgets about fading from existence, he lives in the moment, and then, there, it's enough.

* * *

Ned shows up on Peter's doorstep with _Treasure Planet_ and _Moana_ in hand.

"So, I was thinking movie night?" Ned asks, brushing past Peter into the apartment. "I thought Treasure Planet since it's your favourite and all, but you also went through a super traumatic event in space, so I brought Moana as a backup. Totally up to you, I think you should do whatever you think is right, do you want snacks?"

Peter grins, "Why choose one when I can choose _both_?"

"I like the way you think," Ned pats Peter on the back, "Want me to set it up? You can make our movie fortress."

Peter nods and rushes to get some blankets and pillows. They set up a bunch of pillows on the couch and huddle together under the ugliest blankets that May could find at the flea market. (It's a thing with her, an odd little source of pride that Peter seems to have inherited because he loves them despite how ugly they look.)

They pile together, and Peter rests his head on Ned's shoulder and Ned grins at him and at that moment, Peter is alright.

He's not perfect.

But he's alright.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, Peter's stupid brain breaks down halfway through Moana.

She dreams of her parents and island being turned to dust, and Peter can't help it, he screams and clamps his hands over his mouth and Peter vaguely hears Ned in the background swearing, " _Shit_ , I didn't even _think_ about that scene..." before the lights turn on and the warmth from Ned is gone and the TV screen goes back.

Peter presses his forehead to his knees and sobs even as Ned asks, "Peter, can you hear me? Can I touch you?" and Peter nods because _what else do you do_?

But the instant that Ned wraps his arms around Peter, all that Peter can think of his Mr. Stark's arms around his torso, gently setting him down, _I'm sorry_...

Mr. Stark looked so terrified, so heartbroken, and Peter remembers thinking to _stop acting so scared, you're scaring Mr. Stark_ but what are you _supposed_ to do when the world crumbles away beneath you and you know that you're about to die but can't do anything and...

"Ned, please let go," Peter chokes out, and the pressure around him vanishes, but it doesn't help, doesn't undo the damage, he just feels alone and scared and _at least I didn't die alone, at least I had Mr. Stark..._ "Wait, Ned, stay."

"I'm right here," Ned says behind him, the same kind of desperation in his voice that May has when she talks Peter down from a panic attack. "You're right here, Peter. You're solid. I'm solid."

"I know, I know," Peter says, but he obviously doesn't, because he's still curled up in a ball, head on his knees and arms around his legs as though the second that he lets go, they'll fall right off his torso. "I'm so sorry," he gasps, and Ned goes _no, no, no_.

"Don't you dare apologize," Ned snarls, fierce and harsh. "This isn't your fault, Peter, you need to understand that, this isn't..."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Peter repeats, trying not to start hyperventilating again, "You came here to watch a movie and have a good time and I just went and ruined it..."

"It's not your _fault_..."

"I can't control it..."

"So you can't blame yourself..."

"If I was stronger or..."

"Peter, no, that's not the problem..."

"I'm sorry..."

"Stop apologizing, it's fine, you're fine..."

Pain flaring up in his chest. _I_ _don't feel so good..._

Desperation bleeding into Mr. Stark's voice. _You're fine, kid..._

Peter can't breathe.

The world slows and all that he can think of is how fast his breaths are coming out, how he can't get oxygen in through his nose and there's _not enough air I'm going to die_ but it's irrational _how do you breathe how do you do this_ and he's hyperventilating he needs to stop, Ned's there, he can't worry Ned _I'm not fine that's a lie you're lying_ he can't feel or hear Ned anymore _please don't leave me alone_ and Peter just _can't_.

Then there's pressure on his back and Ned says, "Peter, focus on my hand on your back."

"I can't," Peter sobs.

"Yes, you can," Ned grounds out, "Come on, Peter, you can do it."

Peter tries, but the pressure seems stupid, minuscule compared to the catch in his breaths and the tightness in his chest. "Nobody else seemed to feel anything," he closes his eyes and hears Ned's breath catch. "They all went so fast. Mantis, she said _something's coming_ and then she was gone, just like that, and they all went so _fast_ but there was just me and Mr. Stark and the blue alien and it _hurt_ so much for me, I could _fear_ myself disintegrate and everyone else went so _fast_ but I took so long, I talked to Mr. Stark and it hurt and..."

"Oh my god," Ned whispers, and Peter's full out crying now, chest tight and body shaking with every breath.

"I'm sorry," Peter repeats.

"Give me your hand." Ned presses Peter's hand against his chest, against the steady thump of his heartbeat. "You feel that?" Ned asks. "That's you. Your heart. Going strong. Fast. Working to keep you alive. You're okay, Peter. Your body is solid. Put together. You're _okay_." His voice cracks a bit on the _okay_ , and Peter buries his face in Ned's shoulder.

What is he supposed to say to that? How is he supposed to react?

"Thank you," Peter mumbles.

"No problem, man," Ned rubs his back, "Let's hold off on movies for now."

* * *

The next time that he freaks out is on their next field trip.

They're going to a science museum and Peter is so excited except the second that he sits down on his seat, his brain stops working.

He feels his body shut down, tensing and freezing, and this type of panic attack is better to have in public (far less attention-grabbing, nobody even knows that something's wrong), but it scares him more, the way that it paralyzes him.

MJ drops down in the seat next to him (because Ned isn't in this class, what is he going to do without Ned?) and pulls out a purple felt pen.

"Focus on me," he hears MJ command, his only warning before something cold and kind of ticklish brushes against his wrist.

Peter's arm locks in place, he thinks about his arms crumbling into ash, and...

MJ snaps her fingers in his face. " _Focus_ , Peter," she says ( _MJ doesn't use his name why is she using his name_ ), "Your wrist. Watch the pen, focus on the _pen_."

His eyes drift down, and there it is, MJ doodling little flowers and leaves and vines on the inside of his forearm, dark purple casting a stark contrast to pale skin.

It's easier, to focus on that.

Far easier, focusing on the shapes that her pen makes, the little _v_ of the leaves, the curl of a rose, the slow, precise way that MJ carves each shape into his skin.

It's oddly comforting.

He isn't being destroyed.

He isn't vanishing.

He isn't _dying_.

Something's being made, created, right there on his arm, something is forming and coming to life.

"You've been out of it, lately," MJ comments as though she were discussing the weather. Light. Unimportant. "It's messing with your reaction time in the decathlon."

Peter bites his tongue. "Oh," he says. Stupidly. Like that's all that he knows how to say.

"I know that you're working on it," MJ continues blithely, "But you've got to keep on dealing with it instead of just ignoring it or trying not to make a scene. If you freeze up or something, you've got to get outside help instead of dealing with it on your own."

"I am," Peter mumbles, vaguely offended.

"Yeah, well," MJ switches to pink, sketching a tulip into the crook of his elbow, "Do it more."

"I do it more than enough," Peter can't believe that he's arguing with MJ. It feels a bit surreal.

"You're scared of bothering people," MJ connects the tulip to a rose with a little squiggly vine and adds triangles for thorns. "I get it. You've got that weird complex going on. But don't be," she finishes his arm with a flourish. "Ned said that you died during the second alien invasion? There are books on PTSD. People talking about it online. Find a way to deal with it," she reaches for his other arm, "When was the first penny made?"

Peter gapes at her.

MJ clicks her tongue against her teeth, "Too slow." She offers him a wry grin, "Try to keep up, loser."

* * *

Peter has grown to fear silence.

It's completely irrational (well, as irrational as any of his triggers, really,) but when it's silent, all that he can think of is that moment right before the pain hits, that still silence as everyone else fades, right before he realizes that he's going to go, too, and that terrifies him.

This terrifies him.

May finds him with the TV on, staring blankly at the spot beside it but not really watching nor listening, Peter just needs sound to fill up his world, and May holds up a bag.

"A lady at work passed away," May says quietly. "She left behind every Calvin and Hobbes book and decided to give it to me."

Peter tilts his head in acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak.

Thankfully, May understands. She doesn't call him rude for not speaking, instead dumps the bag onto the couch and says, "I got some Nutella and we've got bread to toast if you want to make some sandwiches and read with me."

"I," Peter's voice sounds scratchy, and dimly, he wonders why. "I would like that. Thanks, May."

She kisses his forehead and asks, "Want me to make snacks?"

Something in Peter's chest surges, a sudden _need_ to be close to May, to stay with her and keep her in his line of sight. "I'll go with you," he blurts out, and she smiles at him.

"Sounds perfect," May beams instead of calling him stupid or childish (of course, it was an irrational fear, anyway). "Do you want anything to drink?"

Peter pretends to think about it. "Alien soup? May's cooked goop?"

"Hey!" May laughs and punches him in the arm.

Peter grins at her, "How about hot chocolate?"

"I think that we have some marshmallows somewhere," May hums, knocking around the cupboards.

"Somewhere over the rainbow..." Peter starts singing, and May shoots him a broad smile before joining in just as enthusiastically (if not far more on key).

They dance around the kitchen, knocking on saucepans and plates as May pulls the toaster out and Peter starts heating up their milk, ridiculous and loud.

It's so perfectly bright and wonderful and Peter loses himself, forgets himself when they sit down and read and eat in silence.

He forgets until he's three pages in and there's an itch on the back of his neck and _oh._

Suddenly he's aware of how quiet it is.

He's painfully and horribly aware.

"You've been stuck on the same page for the past five minutes," May presses a hand to Peter's forehead, "What's up?"

Peter shakes his head, "It's nothing, I'm fine, I..."

"Don't make me use the aunt card." May presses her hands on her hips, and Peter thinks, _it would be easier if you just give in._

"It's too quiet," he mumbles. "Which, I know, it's so stupid and dumb, I mean, like, we're literally _reading_ , what are you _supposed_ to do, it's not like reading is a _loud_ pass time or anything but it's just so _silent_ and I don't know why but it's off-putting and it's silly and..."

"Peter."

May's voice is as soft as butter and as strong as steel.

Peter stops talking.

May leans forward, "What if we put on some white noise, in the background? Like train tracks or the wind or birds chirping? Would that help?"

Peter stills, "Yes." He whispers, "Please."

May puts on some app called _noisli_ and Peter almost cries at the kindness in that single, little motion.

It's so stupid but it feels so _important_ , absolutely immeasurable, goodness radiating and bleeding from May in everything that she does.

"Thank you," Peter says.

May kisses his cheek, "Thank _you_ ," she says, "For talking to me instead of holding it all in."

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," Peter laughs a bit, breathy and helpless.

"Oh, sweetie," May strokes his cheek with her thumb, " _You're_ the one that's too good for me."

Peter's okay because he has people that are here for him.

* * *

Mr. Stark likes to leave Peter little gifts.

A new phone (when Peter comments that he doesn't have one).

A suit and tie (perfectly in time for his DECA presentation).

A succulent (when Peter comments that they look pretty).

Expensive, kind, gifts.

And it's nice.

Except.

It feels wrong.

"It's an apology," Ms. Potts explains with a sigh when Peter talks to her about it. "Tony feels guilty for the whole mess in space, so he's leaving you..." she gestures vaguely, her arm making a wide sweet across Peter's bedroom. It makes sense because Tony recently decided to replace Peter's furniture (with Peter and May's permission, though Peter only gave in once Tony said that he'd just buy them a new apartment instead).

"But it wasn't his fault," Peter says, confused.

"He feels like it was," Ms. Potts shrugs, "That's just Tony." She seems bitter when she says it, as though she's tried to convince Mr. Stark many times that he wasn't at fault, but he had refused to listen to her. "Maybe you can convince him, otherwise." The resignation in her voice says that she doubts it.

Peter tries anyway.

Because he's kind of stupid, he decides that he'll take the direct approach.

"Me dying wasn't your fault, Mr. Stark," Peter says.

"Okay, kid," Mr. Stark sounds like someone humouring a child's fantasies, "If you say so."

Peter scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, "I do say so."

Mr. Stark gives him a noogie, and Peter grumbles.

"How do I convince him otherwise?" Peter asks Rhodey.

"With Tony?" Rhodey frowns, "Believe me, kid, I've tried. Nothing works."

Peter decides on logic.

"It's not like you didn't try your best," he tries.

Mr. Stark flinches. "I know," he lowers his head, "Even my best wasn't good enough."

"No, that isn't..." Peter grits his teeth, "Logically, what could you have done to stop him?"

Mr. Stark shrugs halfheartedly. "Got the gauntlet off faster. Fought better. If Strange hadn't given up the damn stone to save me..."

"But we won in the end because of you," Peter says softly.

Mr. Stark laughs bitterly, "You _died_."

"I came back."

"It doesn't change the fact that I failed and you..."

"Why aren't you _listening to me_?" Peter's yelling now, irrationally angry and voice raised. "It's not your _fault_ , Mr. Stark, not yours any more than Strange or _Starlord_ or _mine_ and you're not _listening_ because you just _have_ to be the martyr or the scapegoat but you're not and you aren't _listening to me_!"

Mr. Stark gapes, and Peter's face heats up but it's too late for regrets, too late to take it back, so he plows onward.

"You keep acting like it's your fault that I died when you were the one who said to not give the time stone to Thanos..."

"I said to keep going, I said to attack him at the planet, you don't _understand_..."

"How would we have turned back _anyway,_ we couldn't have, it was impossible..."

"We should have _tried_ instead of land on fucking _Titan_ and..."

"Then we would have died on that ship!" Peter snarls, snapping an arm out. "You saved me, Mr. Stark, if it weren't for you, I would still be a pile of ash on the ground and you just keep _ignoring_ the fact that you saved half the universe..."

"You shouldn't have been turned to ash in the first place..."

"I _know_!" Peter snaps, desperate, harsh. "I know that I shouldn't have, but I did, and you saved me and it was never your fault."

"If I hadn't recruited you..."

"Then I would have just died never having met you," Peter cut Tony off, shaking his head. "It's not your fault, Mr. Stark."

"But... I..." Mr. Stark bit his lip, and then sighed, shaking his head. "Let's just let this lie for now. Feel up to a game of Mario Kart?"

Peter ran his fingers through his hair and then sighed. "If you insist, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark grinned, hollow but there. "I do," he agreed lightly.

They leave it and spend the next hour on the couch.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter's on edge.

He doesn't know why, there's no _real_ reason, no practical reason, just something buzzing in the back of his head, almost like his spidey sense, but it isn't, it's not, it's more like the feeling that he used to get before a presentation, nervous about screwing up and sounding dumb. (He knows better, now, of course, knows that most high schoolers are more sympathetic and those who aren't don't care enough to laugh at him.)

His hands shake throughout all of English class and when lunch comes, he forgets to buy any, just sits and taps his fingers on the cafeteria table.

"Hey, man," Ned slides into the seat across from him, "Want me to get lunch with you?"

"Nah, I," Peter's leg bounces up and down, eyes flickering to Ned's lunch back to Ned and all around the cafeteria. "No, it's fine, I just, it's just," His throat feels tight and he shrugs, jittery and nervous.

Ned waits patiently, but Peter has no words to offer him so Peter just shakes his head and mentally chastises himself for acting so stupid.

"It's okay, man," Ned says, softens. "You don't have to talk about it. But let's get some food into you, okay? Eating's pretty important."

"I can't, I can't..." Peter feels overwhelmed, but he has no clue _why_. His head is blaring, but there's no reason, no danger, just alarm when everything is perfectly fine and he doesn't know _why_ he feels like this. "I just, it's just."

How is he supposed to explain this?

Explain something that he can't even understand?

What is Peter supposed to say?

What _can_ he say, when he has no more of a clue about what's going on than Ned does?

"That's fine, that's okay," Ned smiles at Peter and a wave of guilt swells up in Peter's chest because Ned is too good for him and Ned is always so patient with him but Peter never reciprocates and maybe Ned acts like he's okay with it but eventually he _must_ get sick of it or something or...

"Is he freaking again?" MJ slides into the seat next to Peter and waves a hand in his face. When he doesn't respond, she sighs and pulls a watercolour kit out of her backpack. "That's chill, I wanted to experiment with the new paints, anyway."

There's not a lot of warning before there's the feeling of a brush against his cheek and Peter flinches back.

MJ doesn't explain herself, doesn't give any excuses, just raises an eyebrow until Peter mumbles, "Can we, uh, not do that today?"

"Yeah, that's fine," MJ shrugs, "What do you want to do, then?"

"I don't," Peter grits his teeth and lowers his eyes, shaking his head. He feels like a bomb about to explode, just like in those cartoons, shaking and twitching right before everything around them is blown to bits and pieces. "I don't know."

"That's fine," MJ turns her back to Peter, "Want to braid my hair?"

Peter hesitates, "I, uh, my hands are shaky."

MJ shot Peter an unimpressed stare over her shoulder. "I've seen you make a flawless fishtail braid on the first try," she raises an eyebrow, "Somehow, I think that you'll be fine."

Peter hunches his shoulders, "But..."

"You're feeling jittery, right?" MJ turned away from Peter, "You need to do something with your hands? Braiding hair's good for when you're nervous. No long-term consequences if you mess up, and my hair ends up looking great if you don't. Win-win."

Peter can't help but smile a bit when Ned butts in, "How about a win-win-win and we add in a little something for _me_ in this, too?"

Peter wiggles his eyebrows, "Grow your hair to shoulder length and we'll see what we can do."

Ned pulls back, making the most fake-offended expression that Peter has ever seen him make. "Dude, I look _perfect_ with this hair length."

"But you could look like a hippie!" Peter protests, "Like Billy Ray Cyrus."

MJ snickers, "Hannah Montana?"

Peter turns bright red, "As though you were any better."

"I grew up on Shirley Temple and Calvin and Hobbes," MJ, as always, sounds smug and utterly deserving of all the smugness. "So, yeah, I was better."

"Okay, well," Peter chews on his lower lip, "I grew up on... uh..."

"Literally everything," Ned finishes off his fries, "Didn't Ben and May just, like, culture vomit all over you?"

"First of all, gross," Peter parted MJ's hair, "Do you want a scorpion braid?"

"Give me that one from Wonder Woman. The one with the two little braids that get integrated into the third."

"Do you have enough hairbands for that?"

MJ lifted her arm, sleeves falling away to reveal an armful of rainbow hairbands covering most of her forearm. "Oh, I don't know," she answered flatly, a teasing smile giving away her attempt at sobriety, "Why don't you check for yourself?"

"Okay, okay," Peter reddened, "I was just making sure."

"We know," Ned started on his burger, "Which is why we love you, man."

Peter glanced at Ned's burger and raised an eyebrow, "There is no way the cafeteria sold that."

"Ugh, nah," Ned scrunched up his nose, "They sold this weird whole grain bread with a sausage and gravy on it. It was like a hot dog but with actual sliced bread and gravy instead of ketchup and it was just... ugh. Ew. And they sold it for _five dollars_! This is from Harvey's."

"Much better," MJ hummed, "Yo, loser, have you eaten yet?"

Peter sighed, "No. Second of all, I am now very cultured and I feel that if to make me cultured was their goal, they have achieved it."

"So it's not that you're just a loser, it's _genetic_ ," MJ patted Peter's arm, "You need to get something to eat."

Peter shook his head, hands shaking again, "I can't," he mumbled.

MJ raised an eyebrow, "Money matters?"

"No. I just, I can't."

MJ sighed, the closest that she could get to groaning without actually doing it. "You know, I feel like you're _trying_ to make sense but you're just not doing it."

Peter put the hair at the crown of MJ's head into a ponytail and started dutch braiding the hair at the temples, "It's just, I don't think that I can do it. My mouth feels like it doesn't want food and if I had some food I'd barf or I just couldn't swallow it or something and I just can't..." he sighs, "Maybe later, okay?"

"Good enough," Ned concedes, though there's a frown in his voice. "Do you think that you're sick?"

Peter shakes his head, "No, it's not me being sick, it just... is."

"How specific," MJ said drily.

Peter shrugged, "It is what it is."

She laughed a bit.

Peter grinned, a bit victorious, and far less on the edge than he had been before.

* * *

"Here, kid," Mr. Stark drops a little ball onto Peter's lap, "It's an Evo."

Peter automatically reaches out to catch it between two hands, fingers curling in for a moment against the smooth glass before he squints at it and echoes, "...Evo?"

"An Ozobot," Mr. Stark says, as though the mere word is explanation enough.

Peter supposes it is because he smiles a bit at it and whispers reverently, " _Cool_."

Mr. Stark puffs up, proud in his choice of gift, and he says, "My lab is open if you want to tinker with it."

And normally, Peter would be over the moon. Dead. Deceased. Probably annoying Mr. Stark to the point where he would start wondering if letting Peter into his lab is really that wise of a decision. Except...

"I'd love to, Mr. Stark," he says honestly, throat tight, "But I just want to stay home tonight."

Mr. Stark gapes at him. Or at least, does the closest thing to it.

He kind of clears his throat for a second before smoothing down his shirt and lifting his head, chin raised and eyes kind of wide, very alarmed. "Oh, well, kid, if you wanted to go Spider-man-ing tonight, you could just say so or..."

"That's not it, Mr. Stark," Peter cuts in because he doesn't want to give Mr. Stark the wrong impression or anything like that. "I'm not sick, either, before you think of that. I just don't feel up to it."

Mr. Stark is _really_ gaping now, and Peter is regretting his life because his head is blaring at him, screaming, _you just said no to Tony freaking Stark you will regret this he'll hate you from now on you had a once in a lifetime opportunity he'll avoid you forever stop say sorry don't do this are you stupid why are you such a freaking idiot you're so..._

Mr. Stark fiddles with the cuffs of his sweater, wrinkling them and smoothing them back out again, moving it and sliding it up and down his forearm, clearly flustered for a moment before he says, dumbly, "Ah." He clears his throat, regains his composure, and suddenly he's Mr. Stark again, smooth and suave. "Yeah, okay, kid. Whatever. You go on and do whatever it is that teenagers do these days."

"No, I," Peter feels frustrated now, "I would really love to. Some other time, if you're okay with that, I mean. If you'd let me."

Mr. Stark smiles now, nervous but trying to remain suave. It makes for an odd look, a bit plastic and overly symmetrical. "Sure. Yeah. If that's what you want."

"It is," Peter answers quickly, earnestly, and then, hesitantly, "If you want, we can make some pancakes together."

It's the stupidest thing that he's ever said.

It's official: Peter Parker is an idiot.

The most idiotic idiot in the world.

He should be castrated, torn apart by five horses, and then hanged in the public square for a sign of what idiocy is and what not to do.

He totally overstepped his boundaries.

He...

"I'd love to," Mr. Stark says, just as quickly, just as nervously as Peter feels, and he looks apprehensive now, the edges of his lips kind of twitching up like he's trying to smile but has forgotten how or if he should. Like he's recalibrating, calculating whether or not the situation _really_ calls for it.

Peter finds it a bit endearing, oddly enough. "Really?" He squeaks.

"Yes," Mr. Stark says, loudly, words prompt as though they were waiting on his lips. "Please."

Peter ducks down his head and tries to hold down the wide grin that's spreading on his lips. "Awesomesauce," he says, and Mr. Stark laughs a bit.

* * *

It turns out that asking Mr. Stark to help make pancakes is a... well... not-so-great idea.

Well, rather, it's a bad idea.

Correction: a _horrible_ idea.

Okay, fine, it's the worst idea in all of history and Peter has no idea why he thought of it, let alone have the stupidity to _suggest_ it.

The kitchen is on fire.

And typically, Peter means something like 'it's a disaster', but no, the kitchen island is on fire and Peter's screaming and Tony's shouting and May is screaming because she came home and the two of them were tripping everywhere trying to find a fire extinguisher.

In the end, May turns on the sink and the three of them throw water onto the island. Thankfully, the fire stays on the kitchen island and doesn't go to any other part of the apartment. A small reason for gratitude, Peter knows, but he's honestly amazed that it didn't go worse.

"I'll replace that," Is the first thing that comes out of Mr. Stark's mouth, he holds up a finger and winces a bit when May glares at him.

"Do I want to know," she asks frostily, "Why my kitchen was on _fire_?"

The finger comes down and Mr. Stark winces.

"We, uh, I, um..."

"We were making pancakes," Peter breaks in because, to be honest, Mr. Stark is a bit of a disaster in the kitchen and it appears that being in the kitchen has taken his speech as well as anything resembling coordination skills. "Mr. Stark was trying to..." he pauses and glances at Mr. Stark, "What _were_ you trying to do?"

Mr. Stark smiles awkwardly, "Well, you need heat, right? So I tried to heat up the counter to make the pancakes on and..."

"There is a stove, _right there_ ," May groans, throwing her head back and burying her face in her hands.

Mr. Stark winces again, "I'll replace your island." He repeats.

May groans again, a bit louder this time.

Peter fiddles his thumbs, "Okay, uh, so this wasn't exactly the best idea of all time."

"Not exactly," May agrees, pursing her lips and shooting a Look at Mr. Stark.

"But I think that we learned a valuable lesson today," Peter attempts to stay optimistic.

"Oh yeah," Mr. Stark agrees quickly, "Never let me into the kitchen."

"That _is_ a great lesson," May agrees sarcastically, "Too bad we didn't know _before_ the island was set on fire."

Mr. Stark, if possible, shrinks even further.

" _No_ ," Peter frowns, "That is _not_ the lesson, Aunt May."

"I see no other lesson," Mr. Stark grimaces.

"The lesson is," Peter puts his hands on his hips, "if you don't know what to do, _ask_. If you're not sure how to do something, ask for help. Asking for help is a great thing to do. Following the instructions on the _recipe_ ," he points at a little index card on the island that somehow, miraculously, managed to survive the chaos. "Is key."

Mr. Stark fidgets.

"That's a lovely lesson, Peter," May sighs, rubbing her temples, "But I still don't want Tony in my kitchen anymore."

Peter prepares to argue, but, glancing at the island, still smoking and charred black in the middle, thinks the better of it. "Yeah..." he cringes, "That's fair enough."

* * *

In the end, May and Peter kick Mr. Stark to the curb. By which, they mean, they throw him (politely) to the couch and force him (politely) to watch a movie to occupy his time.

"I recommend _Schindler's List_ ," May pats Mr. Stark's shoulder before prancing off to the kitchen.

The two make quick work of pancakes. May may be a disaster in the kitchen when it comes to cooking, but pancakes are an easy skill and other than rice, it's the only thing that she can make.

"You doing alright, kiddo?" May murmurs into Peter's temple, fingers carding through his hair.

"I'm fine," He squirms out of her grasp and offers her a quick kiss on the cheek before washing the measuring tools that they used. At May's skeptical stare, he tacked on an earnest, "Really."

"If you say so," May sighed, resigned, "But I'm always here if you want to talk, okay?"

"Of course you are," Peter rolled his eyes, "That's your whole stick. Perfect, always there to talk, your only flaw is your cooking skills."

May swatted him on the head, "Brat."

"You love me."

She put her hands on her hips, a wry smile on her lips, "Don't give me away."

Peter laughs, "What about you? Are _you_ okay?"

"I am so long as you are," May promises, tapping Peter's nose.

He smiles at her, "So we're both perfect and peachy?"

"Peaches and cream and all that good stuff," May agrees lightly, moving around Peter to flip the pancakes. They fly in the air and she catches them, easily sliding into the pan with practiced ease.

"Show off," Peter teases her.

"No problem in showing off what skills I do have," May winked. "You can't say that you aren't impressed."

"Alright, I won't say it."

May rolls her eyes and Peter laughs.

* * *

They end up watching _Cardcaptor Sakura_ in a bizarre turn of events, pancakes on plates balanced gingerly on legs, squished together on the sofa with Peter sandwiched between May and Mr. Stark.

"I should come here more often if I get so much free food," Mr. Stark says cheerfully, lifting a piece of pancake to his lips.

"Get some cooking lessons first, then we'll talk," May bumps Peter's shoulder, in turn bumping him against Mr. Stark.

Peter laughs, "We can handle the cooking."

May shoots Peter a betrayed look, pressing a hand against her chest, "I thought that we agreed to let Tony be our sugar daddy, not the other way around!"

"What can I say?" Peter wiggles his eyebrows, "I'm a slave to money."

"Capitalist!" May accuses.

"Communist!" Peter rebuttals.

"How dare you!" May gasps, pressing a hand to her chest as her mouth falls open in a mock-horrified expression. "This is true betrayal!"

"Alas, was always to be so," Peter pretends to swoon on Mr. Stark's shoulder, and it should say something that Mr. Stark starts recording them, looking amused.

"I cannot stand this affront to my honour!" May brandishes her butter knife, "Allow me to duel thee, for a chance to right your wrong!"

"To right my wrong, cannot be done, but to write of my wrong, shall be all you can concede to do, for wrongs cannot be made right by more than what is written."

A look of faux disgust crosses Mr. Stark's expression, "Did you seriously just turn that into a word play?"

"Eh, you're right," Peter pulls out his butter knife and begins to duel May. "On garde!"


	4. Chapter 4

Peter wakes up curled against Mr. Stark's chest, head tucked in a spot between the arc reactor and Mr. Stark's arm, a blanket was haphazardly thrown over them as though it had rumpled with their movement.

It's one of Ben's old blankets, ugly, old things that looked like those ugly Christmas sweaters except woven into blankets with all the wrong colour schemes. This one is muted red, and the thread reminded Peter of blood, growing up.

Peter hasn't seen it since Ben's death, and dimly, he vaguely recalls that May slept with them on the nights where she had missed him the most, crying over a blanket and sobbing by their... her... bedside, trying to remain strong in front of Peter and silently breaking when she thought that he wasn't looking.

There's sunlight streaming in through the windows, and Peter has a moment of panic as he wonders how late it is, before May comes in with a plate of leftover pancakes from the previous night, looking distinctively more put together than Peter saw her the last night and Peter remembers that it's a Saturday.

"Morning, sleepyhead," May greets him with a kiss on the forehead and sets the pancakes down on the coffee table. "Took you long enough to wake up."

"Mm," Peter groans as he unfurls, gently stretching his legs first and then moving slowly so as to not disturb Mr. Stark. "What time is it?"

"Still early," She looks amused, "Go back to sleep. I have to go to work soon."

Peter frowns at her, "You don't work Saturdays."

"Picked up a few extra shifts," May says, weary and loving, "Don't worry about it."

"You know, when you say stuff like that, all it does is make me worry even more, right?"

May laughs and ruffles Peter's hair, "My sweet little kid."

Peter puffs out his cheeks, "I'm more than sweet, I'm adorable."

"Ah, yes," May's eyes light up with amusement, "How could I have forgotten your most redeeming trait? Your dashing good looks and chipmunk cheeks."

Peter laughs at her, loud and full, and beneath his head, Mr. Stark groans and shifts a bit.

"Oh, oops," May shushes him and Peter shushes her back until it's just a ridiculous game of them shushing each other in increasingly louder sounds. May finishes off her pancakes when Mr. Stark's moving shushes them properly and whispers to Peter quickly, "Be back by 4, okay, sweetie? I put a twenty on the kitchen counter for lunch."

"Love you, May," Peter whispers, and May ruffles his hair, that fond, loving smile on her face that she gets whenever she and Peter get all dopey and sappy on each other.

"Love you, too, kiddo," May sighs, more of a breath, and then she's gone, burnished pea coat slung over her shoulders and hair tied back in a rough french braid.

When she leaves, Peter internally debates the pros and cons of getting up, casting worried glances at the sunlight, but the warmth of the blanket around his torso and the weight of Mr. Stark's arm over his shoulders is comforting, and, well, it's the weekend, isn't it? So Peter puts his head back on Mr. Stark's chest, the steady pulse of the arc reactor buzzing on his cheeks as Mr. Stark's chin drops to land on the top of Peter's head.

Sunlight through the window, Mr. Stark's thumb in his hair, a comfy couch and a blanket over his legs.

What more could he ask for?

* * *

There is an envelope in Peter's locker.

It's neat and white and has his name written in the dark, rounded print that shows that someone took their time with writing his name. Slipped on top of his sneakers through the little cracks in his locker, innocently waiting for him to open it.

He eyes it suspiciously and after fingering it, figures that it isn't a bomb or something else that's insane from someone who figured out his secret identity, so he opens it and...

Glitter explodes everywhere.

There's a flash and it's in front of him and all over the locker and all over the floor and someone laughs nearby but all that Peter can think of his _ash, ash, ash_ and his breath is caught in his throat and...

It gets _everywhere_ , on his arms and on his feet and when Peter sees it all he can think of his a red world and watching as his skin turns to dust and...

He's screaming, shoving at the glitter and scratching his arms and the background noise fades away and it feels like ages and ages before something hard slams into his arm.

He stops, slamming his back against a wall of lockers and shutting his eyes as a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ sinks to the ground.

"Peter," There's a hand on his shoulder, frantic but bleeding with forced control. "Peter, it's okay, you're fine."

"I'm sorry," He sobs, voice cracking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I..."

"It's fine, it's fine," vaguely, he registers the voice as Ned's as the hand curls around his cheeks, fingers on the side of his face and palm flat below his cheekbones. "It's fine, Peter."

He curls up, the hand still on his cheek and he bites his tongue, mumbling, "Thank you," because he wants to apologize but that's selfish, what his friends needs is for him to be grateful, not self-deprecating.

"It's okay, man," Ned sighs.

Another hand goes through his hair, parting it ever so slightly, lightly running against his scalp. "Want to get up?" MJ hums and, well, that explains where the book came from.

Peter flinches, because he doesn't want to, doesn't want to face the world, to stand, to open his eyes, but what else can he do? So he opens his eyes and tries not to gag when he sees the glitter and stands up, hands bracing himself against the lockers as he mumbles a soft _okay_.

It isn't okay.

It's nowhere _near_ okay.

But Peter can pretend.

He braced himself against Ned, knowing how absurd he must seem, having a panic attack over something as stupid as _glitter._

"I'm sorry," He repeats, burying his face in Ned's shoulder as they walk to the nurse's office, hand in hand.

"Hey, it's okay, man," Ned says, gentle and soft because Ned is perfect like that (and Peter wonders what he did to ever deserve something so good, someone so kind). "But hey, glitter. Now we learned a new trigger, that's good, right? I mean, it would have been better to figure it out _without_ the whole panic attack in the middle of the hall dilemma but you take what you can get, yeah? It'll be okay. You're going to be okay."

And Peter, he knows this. He knows that he'll be okay, but he can't choke out the words because even though he knows, even though the knowledge sits in his brain as firm and immovable as the sun, though all logic tells him this, he doesn't know. Not properly. Not truly. Not when he sees glitter and he thinks, revolted, of his body fading away, his healing factor slowing down death in a way that didn't stop any of the others, his body desperately attempting to hold back the inevitable, Peter can't help but think of that and _god_ , isn't that pathetic?

"So, no glitter," MJ hums next to him. Peter can practically picture her walking next to them, book in hand and head lowered to keep her reputation as the aloof bookworm firmly in place, "How's confetti?"

Peter shakes, "Too soon," he whispers, and it's meant to be a joke except for the fact that his voice cracks and MJ falls silent for a moment.

"Sorry," she says, and Peter gets the distinct feeling that she's looking at him.

"No, it's fine, I..." Peter gnaws on his lower lip as they finally reach the nurse's office and Ned sets Peter down. Peter's grip on Ned's hand tightens when Ned moves away, "Stay?"

"Yeah," Ned sits down next to him, and Peter curls up into his arm. "Of course."

"Well, I'm leaving," MJ cards her fingers through Peter's hair, "Think that you can survive without me?"

Peter cracks the ghost of a smile, "As if."

She laughs a bit and then goes back to humming the sun. Peter gets a vague sense of familiarity, but can't quite put his finger on what song it is. "You have Intro to Biz first, right?"

Peter realizes what she's doing, "You're not going to..."

"Of course not," MJ sounds offended, "I'm just going to take notes. Not like I'm going to record your lecture or anything."

" _Cheerios_ ," Peter breathes, half amazed, half laughing. "Don't you have music first period?"

MJ flicks his forehead, making a vague attempt at sounding aloof but utterly failing. "Yeah, so?"

"Music is your favourite class."

"I don't do that much in music anyway," MJ huffs, "All that I get to do is play the flute, and I could do that anytime that I wanted."

"But you love playing with the band." Peter sounds childish now, petulant and ungrateful for the kind favour that MJ is offering to him.

"Yeah, well," MJ makes a vague sound in the back of her throat and then there's an awkward pat on Peter's head before the bell rings and she mutters, "Gotta go. See you, losers."

"Bye, MJ," Ned says, and Peter makes a vague echo of the sentiment.

Ned casts Peter a worried glance, "You sure that you're okay, man?"

Peter wraps his arms around Ned's torso and breathes in Ned's smell. Cold cereal and cardboard, probably from his legos and the leftover breakfast smell on his tongue. "I've got you, haven't I?" He smiles into Ned's arm.

" _Dude_ ," Ned laughs, pressing a hand against Peter's arm, "That was so cheesy."

Peter moves in closer to Ned, "What can I say?" He quips, "I'm a cheesy guy."

"Yeah, well," Ned sobers a bit and pats Peter's arm, "Don't be afraid to take your time to recuperate, okay, Mr. Cheesy?"

Peter hums and stays there, head on Ned's arm until the nurse comes in and starts asking questions.

* * *

"I was fine," Peter sulks to his therapist, idly playing around with a paperclip. "May was busy with work and I was fine and then they insisted on calling her so now May has to take even _more_ shifts and I'm worried about her because she's been taking a lot of those lately and I'm worried that she's going to burn out but she keeps insisting that she's fine and it frustrates me and..." He throws his paperclip across the room and scowls at it. "It's so stupid. I shouldn't be getting all worked up over this, I know, it's just a little thing, but I can't stop thinking about it and..." His fingers drum into the arm of his seat.

 _Tip-tap. Tip-tap. Tip-tap._

"I get it," His newest therapist, a man with pastel pink hair, agrees, "Money's worrisome, but your parents don't like it when you talk about it. They want to keep you young and innocent and carefree, but all that you want to do is help out."

"Yeah," Peter huffs, "I mean I get that it's just because she loves me, but she needs to take care of herself, too. And she's not doing it."

"That's not your fault, Peter," His therapist says softly.

Peter starts gnawing on his nails. "It's making me go nuts," He mutters, closing his eyes. "It's the stupidest thing ever, and here I am, acting like a stupid whiny brat about it when you've got patients with real problems and..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," His therapist cuts in sharply, eyes narrowing and holding a hand up, "Pause, stop, rewind. What do you mean, 'real problems'? Are you hallucinating? Did you just make up all these problems? Are they all in your head? Do they not actually exist in real life?"

Peter knows this tactic. MJ's used it on him enough, but he still isn't sure how to evade it. "No, but..."

His therapist narrows his eyes, and Peter concedes with a slump in his seat.

"You know what it was that I got all freaked out over?" Peter plays with the drawstrings of his hoodie. He wants to curb himself, to stop with all the nervous ticks because he knows that he looks like an open book, but he can't help it. He needs to do something with his hands, with his fingers, to stop the feeling of _movemovemove_ stuck in his chest. " _Glitter_. I haven't had any bad experiences with it, I just saw it and freaked."

"There is nothing wrong with having a trigger," His therapist says sharply, "Just because your trigger isn't something like a gun doesn't invalidate it."

Peter gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "I'm not going to win with you, am I?" He asks faintly, smiling a bit. He can almost imagine MJ as a therapist, sharp and kind and harsh but sweet, a walking oxymoron.

"I can stop if you want me to," His therapist's eyes are sharp, dark as coal and the edges of his mouth twitch like he's not sure if they want to go up or down.

Peter tilts his head back, "I'm paying you to interrogate me, aren't I?"

His therapist sounds amused, "This is a free trial. It literally said that in the brochure."

Peter makes a face at the therapist, "I think that I like you," He groans.

"How unfortunate," The therapist raises an eyebrow, "Truly, a tragedy."

Beyond all odds, Peter laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony wakes up to the smell of metal and wood shavings.

"FRIDAY?" He mumbles, yawning as he pulls himself off of his workbench and stretching his arms, wincing when he catches sight of Steve fast asleep on the bench across from him. He had meant to wake Steve up and send him off to bed, but Tony must have fallen asleep before managing to do so.

"It is currently Friday, May 4, sir," FRIDAY reports, "9:56 in the morning. Weather is clear. Work for today is clear."

Tony chews on his lower lip and casts a glance at Steve. He debates whether or not he should wake him up for a moment, but despite everything, things between them are still tense. They always have been. Not for anyone's fault, they just happened to be different. "Wake Capsicle later," he yawns, "I'm surprised that he isn't up yet."

"He woke up in the middle of the night for a bit," FRIDAY explains and Tony casts a glance at Steve's sketchbook, where there's a clean sketch of Tony sleeping, the wrinkle of his cheek and the curve of his arms clearly erased and redrawn many times. Ah. Steve has always found it easier to draw than talk, and Tony has always found it easier to deflect than stay honest. Maybe that was part of why they didn't get along.

"We'll leave him there for now," Tony says dismissively, not wanting to open that can of worms just yet.

"Of course, sir," FRIDAY sounds skeptical, as though she knows that Tony is actively avoiding Steve. Which. Well. Of course, she knows. "And what will you do in the meantime?"

Tony hums a bit to himself, and then squints at his watch, "May 4th, you said?"

* * *

"Happy Star Wars Day!" May bursts into Peter's room with a platter of Darth Vader shaped pancakes.

She's all decked up in a cheesy Darth Vader outfit with a big black cape and everything. If Peter recalls correctly, it was a birthday gift from Ben a few years back.

"Didn't think that I'd see that again," he remarks, eyeing the outfit.

She smiles a bit self consciously and gives him a bit of a twirl, "Too much?"

"Not enough," Peter grins crookedly at May, "You still need the helmet. You're totally skimping."

"Ah, you've caught me," May slumps down onto the edge of Peter's bed, "I've been cheating you."

They laugh at each other a bit and then May sets the platter of pancakes onto Peter's lap.

"Okay, but seriously," she raises an eyebrow at him, " _Look_ at these pancakes. I love them. You need to love them. I worked so hard on them."

Peter examines them, "Did you borrow Mrs. Todd's pancake pan again?"

Mrs. Todd, their neighbour, had a huge collection of pancake pans that made pancakes shaped like different fandom characters. She was kind of the coolest old lady that Peter knew.

"Look at you, unravelling all of my secrets," May crossed her arms over her chest, taking a moment since the cape kept getting in her way, and stuck out her lower lip into a pout. "So mean. How could you? Revealing all my secrets, slandering my good name..."

"It's not slandering if it's the truth," Peter cut in, snickering a bit.

" _Slandering my good name_ ," May continued dramatically, flipping her hair over her chest and pretending to be wounded, "Spreading such horrible rumours, acting as though I couldn't make a Darth Vader shaped pancake without using our neighbour's pan..."

Peter cracked up, bent over the pancakes.

May ignored him, trying to fight back a growing smile on her lips, "Pretending that I'm just a regular human, like the rest of you peasants..."

Peter met her eyes.

May met his.

Her lips twitched.

And at the same time, they both doubled over, laughing and trying their hardest not to cramp up.

"I was _so close_ to finishing my monologue!" May choked out between giggles, "You little brat!"

"You called me a _peasant_!" Peter gasped out between snorts, wiping his eyes as they began tearing up. "Omigoodness, it was so beautiful."

May falls back on the bed, narrowly missing Peter's legs. " _So close_."

"You could not expect me to hold it in after _slandering your good name_."

"Excuse you, mister!" May exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips and touching a hand to her chest, "Are you saying that I don't have a good name?"

Peter put the platter of pancakes onto his bedside table and wiggled his eyebrows at her, "If the shoe fits..."

May gasped dramatically. "How _dare_ you! Your head shall roll for this grave insult!"

"Not if your head..." Peter picked up a pillow and swung it toward May, "...rolls _first_!"

It hit her sound in the chest and May immediately leaped for the other pillow on Peter's bed, rolling to the side and slamming it against his arm. "Oh, you wouldn't _dare!_ "

Peter blocked her attack with his own pillow, "I will be superior!"

"Never!"

They battled with their pillows for what felt like both a second and eternity until the alarm started to ring and May stopped swinging, pausing to sigh and scowl at the alarm clock.

"Sorry, sweetie," She put down her pillow after one last attack on Peter. "I've got to go to work now."

"Oh," Peter floundered a bit, and then smiled at her, "it's fine. Someone's got to pay for these Darth Vader pancakes."

May smiled apologetically, "You'll be fine home alone? Remember, you can always go to a friend's or invite someone over or..."

"I'm _fine_ , May," Peter huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and trying his best to emit a 'sullen teenager' vibe.

From the amused smile that May was giving him, Peter was failing. Hard. "Okay, sweetie," she smoothed a hair from his forehead, hand resting on the side of Peter's cheek as she leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. "We'll have a Star Wars Marathon when I come back, okay?"

Peter beamed, "It's a promise," he agreed, kissing May on the cheek. "I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetie," May smiled wearily at him. "I'll be home by five, okay?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, "That's early."

She shrugged, "I took a lot of extra shifts this week, remember?"

Peter smiled, "Right."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Then with a sweep of her black cape, May was gone, Darth Vader costume and all.

* * *

When Tony finds Peter, the kid is eating Darth Vader shaped pancakes and wearing a Rey costume as he watches his hacker friend put together a Lego BB8.

"It figures that you would be nerdy enough to celebrate Star Wars day," Tony notes, smiling a bit at the Lego set. "But leaving your friend to piece together the BB8 all by himself? I didn't think that you'd be so cold."

Peter leaps up, startled, "Mr. Stark!" He squeaks, "What are you doing here? Is there some sort of event? Catastrophe? Avengers thing that..."

"Chill, kid," Tony holds up a hand and fights back a smile, "It's fine, you're fine, the world's safe. I was just bored, so I came to check up on you."

To Peter's credit, his mouth only flaps open and shut once before he smiles and sits down, going back to munching on his pancakes.

"Mr. Stark!" His hacker friend, thankfully, got over the whole hero worship thing after the first hundred times that they met and talked, "Are you going to distract Peter? Because it's great that you're here and all, but I need Peter to help work on this and I do _not_ need you distracting him by making him talk when he's supposed to be eating."

Peter laughed, "It's fine, Ned, Mr. Stark won't stay that long."

Tony frowns and puffs up a bit, "Who said that I wasn't going to stay long?" He does his best to sound offended and succeeds, which, he's not sure if that's a good thing or not how easily he sounds like a petulant child. "I'll be here all day, folks." He sits down and gestures a hand at the hacker friend... Ned, he means. "Hand a piece over, I'll replace the kid and we'll finish this in record time. I'm great at building things."

Ned looks skeptical, but hands over a handful of legos all the same. "You like working with legos?"

"I haven't in..." Tony pauses. He doesn't recall ever working with legos. "Okay, I haven't, but how hard could it be? Six-year-olds work with this, it's probably really intuitive or something."

Ned and Peter exchanged amused glances, as though he just said something really stupid and naive, which. Maybe it should hurt Tony's pride, but it just kind of worries him because as far as he can tell, they still both have a bit of that hero worship thing about his building skills, so.

"Legos are a bit different from robotics, Mr. Stark," Peter says, smiling a bit into his pancakes. "But I'm sure that you'll do great."

"I'm sure that I will, too," Tony agrees with what is admittedly less confidence than he feels.

And so, they build.

How hard could it be?

* * *

It's impossible.

Evil.

The hardest thing that Tony has ever done in his _life_ , including building the first superhero suit while rotting in a cave in Afghanistan.

Legos, it turns out, are not intuitive at all.

In fact, it takes what feels like forever and Ned keeps saying, "Mr. Stark, that's the wrong piece," and he knows what he's doing, dammit, except he kind of doesn't and can only breathe a sigh of relief when Peter finally finishes his pancakes and helps out.

Politely telling Tony to let them take over, the two finish the entire BB8 in an hour, whereas Tony took forever just to get a quarter of it finished, which.

What.

"What is _up_ with six-year-olds?" Tony demands, gesturing vaguely, "Those things are _impossible_ to work with!"

"Like we said, Mr. Stark," Peter slots in a lego piece, "It's different from robotics."

"There's different, and then there's _this_." Tony is not pouting. He is not. He is an adult, thank you.

Ned grins at him, crooked and amused, and Tony has to admit, he's a bit impressed by Ned's patience and quick work. "It's fine, Mr. Stark," he says earnestly, "just takes a bit of practice, is all."

Tony makes some mental plans to order his own Lego BB8 and finish it by the end of the month. He can do it. This is a challenge, and no matter what challenge, Tony Stark does _not_ back down.

"I'll be a pro by June," he promises.

The kids grin at him, "Of course you will," Peter says, not patronizing, honestly filled with full faith in Tony's abilities.

Which.

It's both flattering and stupidly sweet.

"Yeah, well," Tony goes red. He's not really sure how to conversation without bantering. "I'll be the best Lego assembler in history. I'll leave your skills in the _dust_."

"That sounds exciting," Ned says cheerfully.

Drat.

Tony wonders how he ended up with such optimistic kids in his life, and why he's so fond of them.

"Do you, uh," he runs his fingers through his hair, "Want to watch a movie or something?"

Peter smiles, "I'm marathoning Star Wars with May tonight," he says, "But if you want, we can watch the prequels. May doesn't like them much."

"Because they are an insult to the Star Wars series!" Ned declares, throwing up his hands and shaking his head.

"I will _fight you_ ," Peter narrows his eyes.

Ned puts up his fists, "Put 'em up."

Peter holds out a hand.

Ned high fives it.

They both laugh.

Tony, admittedly, is a bit lost.

"Okay, so is that a yes, or..."

* * *

After what was an exciting but admittedly tiring afternoon with Ned and Mr. Stark, Peter's grateful to tumble onto his couch, burying his face in the cushions.

"Ready for Star Wars?" May asks, sitting down on his shins.

Peter twists awkwardly to smile dopily at her, "I love you so much," he sighs, fondness swelling up in his chest before he loses his coordination and his upper half falls back face first onto the couch.

"I know," May says, and Peter can't help but laugh at her. "So, that's a yes."

"Get off my legs," Peter says into the couch cushions, "And then we'll talk."

She pretends to think about it, humming and moving on his legs for an intentionally long time before she says, "I suppose I _do_ need to go get our snacks..."

"Then get off!" Peter pouts, which, considering that he has a face full of cushion, admittedly isn't all that effective of a strategy.

May hums and moves some more, before she ruffles Peter's hair and laughs, "I brought home some cantaloupe that was on sale, want to help me cut them up?"

Peter bolts up, eyes wide as he gapes at May, "You got us _fruit_ for snacks?"

May grins at him, wide and dimpled, "I know, I'm the best."

Peter squeals and hugs her, "Yeah, cantaloupe! Cantaloupe! Cantaloupe!"

They end up half cutting and half serenading each other with off-key singing, and Peter falls asleep on May's shoulder halfway through their fourth movie, which is _The Force Awakens_.

She brings up Ben's ugly R2D2 blanket to Peter's shoulder and turns off the TV. For a while, May fights against the urge to sleep by reading _He Forgot to Say Goodbye_ but somewhere before the middle, she finds that she can't keep her eyes open and falls asleep, too, head against the arm of the couch and Peter's hug keeping her in place.

It's warm and nice and May breathes in the smell of cantaloupe and the laundry smell from the blanket and Peter's strawberry shampoo that MJ forced on him and she can't regret the long hours or shifts, not when it means that she gets moments like this, holding her kid in the moment between a second and eternity.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter does this thing where he kind of. Um. Forgets?

His world blurs, fading in and out like a hologram, and he knows it's there but it's a bit like his brain is submerged underwater and he's not sure how to get out of it.

"It's called disassociating," MJ reads off of her phone as Peter lays his head on Ned's lap. "You kind of feel like you're just watching the world like a movie? Or you're kind of numb? Just a sec... here," she hands him her phone, "Those are the symptoms."

Peter finds himself reading a Tumblr post on disassociating and halfway through reading it the phone falls onto his nose because apparently, his fingers forgot that he had to keep a good grip on the phone in order for it not to fall on his face.

"Ow. Yeah," Peter mumbles as MJ pulls her phone off of his face, "Maybe."

"Not _maybe_ ," MJ rolls her eyes, "I'm right. You know that I am."

"If you say so," Peter agrees, closing his eyes. He feels kind of floaty, which is weird, but also... no, it's just weird.

Unbeknownst to him, MJ and Ned exchange looks as though to say _point proven_.

"Do you have an Instagram account?" MJ asks, still scrolling through her phone.

Peter frowns, "Uh, no. I don't have social media."

"Get one," MJ orders him, "Taking pictures helps with this kind of stuff. It helps you remember details, like what you had for lunch or what you wore, and you can focus on the positive, like if you're having a good time, take a photo and post it so that you can look at it when you're having a bad day to remember that a good day has happened and will happen again."

Peter opens his eyes now, and squints at MJ, "I'm not depressed," he says.

"I know," MJ manages to sound both sympathetic and patronizing at the same time, "This isn't about being depressed."

Peter fiddles with his web-shooters. "It feels like I'm lying if I do that," he mutters, "Only posting the good things and the nice things, I mean."

"You're not doing it for others," MJ answered sharply, "You're doing it for yourself and your mental health, not to trick others."

Peter sat up, moving his legs to the other side of the bench so that he faced her. "Are you sure?" He asked, tracing the edges of his web shooters.

MJ raised an eyebrow.

Peter's lips twisted into a half smile, "Point taken."

"It's not a bad idea," Ned noted, "I mean, you've even got that fancy new Stark Phone and everything, right? Instagram is basically just like an online photo album, and it's way more convenient. You really liked taking pictures with that old camera that you had, this is basically doing the same thing, just a bit more often."

Peter puts his head on Ned's shoulder, "Yeah," he agreed slowly, "Okay." He offered MJ a pale smile, "Thanks, MJ."

MJ wrinkled her nose, "Stop smiling at me," she grumbled, "It's annoying."

Peter huffed out a half laugh, "Only you," he snorted, "Would get mad at me for _smiling_ at you."

MJ rolled her eyes, "I draw people in distress, not people who de-stress."

"OOoh," Ned made two finger guns at MJ, "Pun central!"

MJ clicked her tongue and made a single finger gun at Ned, "Pow. Right in the heart."

Ned gasped dramatically and pressed his hands to his chest, "Straight through the heart! Fair cupid's bow has stung me, what agony like thorns but roses worth touching..."

 _Click._

Peter pulled his phone away from his face, turning bright red as MJ and Ned slowly turned to stare at him.

"Dude," Ned blinked owlishly, "Did you just..."

"I can delete it if you want," Peter said quickly, "It's just, you said..."

"Aw!" Ned half tackled Peter into a hug, "You thought that this was a nice moment? It made you happy?"

"I mean, of course, it did, you're my friends, how could you not make me happy? It was just cute and nice and if you'd rather not have that picture online I totally get it because like stranger danger and stuff but it just made me smile to see you two happy together and..."

"He's too pure," MJ whispered, sounding vaguely horrified. "What the heck, Parker."

"I love you so much," Ned tightened his hug.

"I love you, too," Peter returned the hug.

MJ made a petrified gagging noise.

"We love you too, MJ," Ned said into Peter's shoulder.

The gagging noise turned into a shrill shriek of horror.

"You're the best!" Ned continued.

MJ winced, "We are friends."

"Ooh, yeah," Peter held up his phone and snapped a picture of MJ. "We're the _best_ of friends."

"I..." MJ groaned, "I love you, too."

Peter and Ned pulled away from their hug to make the appropriately overexaggerated cheering and clapping noises.

MJ buried her face in her hands. "I can't even say anything negative around you," she groaned, "You're just too pure."

Ned and Peter grinned at each other and fist bumped.

"Yeah, we are!" Ned cheered.

"Probably?" Peter agreed, equally enthusiastic.

The dying cat noises were back.

* * *

Peter, May notes with amusement, has been taking a lot of more pictures with his phone.

Pictures of their plant's growth, of Tony when he falls asleep on their couch, of May, of everything, except himself.

And there lies a possible problem.

Because Peter will enthusiastically snap a photo of _cow manure_ with the description that "Science in action! Methane is in the air, guys! The world is one big, connected circle of life!" but he refuses to take any selfies with his friends and ducks away when May says "Why don't I get a shot of you?"

It worries her a bit because she doesn't know how to deal with that.

May has never worried about her looks or anything like that, never worried about her hair or eyes or the outfit, and she thought that Peter was the same, but how else could she explain how camera shy he is?

"It's not that," Peter says, stunned when she finally confronts him about it over ice cream.

Peter's folded cross-legged on the ceiling of the dining room, eating a popsicle. (They tried ice cream but it just fell out of the bowl. Peter cried over it for a solid second before seating himself on the kitchen counter instead, laughing when May joined him, cross-legged.)

"Oh," May frowns, "Okay, cool. I don't really know how to deal with body image issues."

Peter laughs a bit, "Don't worry, you won't have to."

"You're still camera shy, though," May raises an eyebrow, "What's up, kiddo?"

"Oh, it's nothing big, I just..." Peter licks his popsicle, "Okay, maybe it is a big deal. Or at least you'll think it is. I don't know, it's not. Just so you know."

May's getting kind of worried, and says as much.

"Right, sorry," Peter speaks slowly, articulating his words carefully in that way that he does when he wants to babble but doesn't because he knows that it's a nervous tick so he tries to sound normal but ends up over-articulating every word that comes out of his mouth. "It's just, the reason that I take photos is that MJ said that I should take photos of good things, you know? And I like the good things. I like a lot of things, really, the world's just super cool and great. And I'm okay with taking photos with the masks, you know, selfies with strangers to put on my Spidey Insta..."

May smiles a bit because she follows said account and is constantly filled with pride at Peter's work as Spider-man.

"But, like, what if I..." Peter stares at his hands. Swallows. He uncrosses his legs and walks down the wall and goes to join May where she's perched on the edge of the kitchen counter and that's when she knows that this has become serious. "What if I hate myself?" Peter asks May, curling up into himself and frowning at his hands.

May starts. " _What_?"

"I just," Peter's throat bobs, and he shrugs, "What if I become someone amazing? Someone good and kind who always helps others and what if I look back at myself and all that I can think of is how stupid I was? Or, or, you know, what about when I become someone mature and cool and I look at how stupid I am now and I'm just embarrassed? Or when I'm injured, what if I hate how bad I was at fighting or, or dodging attacks, or I remember that I was triggered by something as stupid as _glitter and_ I'll be over it because it's stupid and... and..."

His voice shakes, cracking on the second _and_ , and May has never felt so much love and hate for someone at the same time.

"No, Peter," May puts down her ice cream and smooths Peter's face from his hair, "No, you could never, you would never, you're already good and kind and you help others, you help so many people, I see that every day in everything you do..."

"It's not _enough_..."

"You're doing more than enough, honestly, it's like you're trying to overcompensate for the world with all your goodness and love, how do you not _see_ that and your triggers aren't stupid..."

"A _six-year-old_ could handle glitter better than me..."

"You watched yourself disappear, Peter..."

"Other people have had worse..."

" _No_ ," May cuts him off sharply, "We do _not_ play the comparison game, Peter Parker. Just because other people have lost more, does that invalidate my grief from Ben's death?"

Peter shakes his head, "I get it May, I'm sorry..."

"Okay, and more than that, do you not understand how amazing you are?" May wraps an arm around Peter's shoulder, "Every day, every second I'm with you, I'm so incredibly happy because I have _you_ in my life, do you understand? I used to _hate_ cacti, I thought that they were the worst plants in the world, totally stupid, and then you came in babbling about how cool they are and showing me pictures and saying that they were pretty and now I literally own..." She does a head count, " _Seven_ cacti."

Peter flushes, "That..."

"I hated my job until _you_ told me how amazing you thought it was, what I did..."

"I..."

"I used to be so negative that when I saw someone I used to make snap judgements but now that I have you when I see someone, I immediately think, _they're beautiful_. I see someone and instead of thinking something stupid like _they're fat_ I think _I love her hair._ Instead of thinking _his nose is crooked_ I think _I love that shirt_. I see beauty everywhere and that's not because I'm some great person, that's because I have _you_ in my life, Peter, do you understand that?"

Peter starts to cry.

May tries not to act too startled. This is a good thing, right?

"I love you, Peter," May wraps her arms around him, "I love seeing you, and you will never regret being this kind, amazing kid who helps old ladies to cross roads and is willing to get help and eats ice cream on the ceiling."

Two days later, Peter's Instagram shows him and Tony in the workshop.

May loves it.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're okay, Spider-man," Peter mumbles to himself as he holds up the falling bits of the burning building, watching the teachers and firemen scurry back and forth with the young children, "It's fine, Spider-man, you can do this, Spider-man, you can..."

Something above him creaks and someone screams.

Peter closes his eyes and tries not to flinch. "It's fine, Spider-man, you can do this, Spider-man," something trickles down his face and he holds back a shudder. Great. A falling building with ash and dust to accompany it. Because no, one trigger was not enough, Peter has to have _two_ in play at all times because apparently, he cannot go a week without being triggered.

The building pushes him to his knees and below him, the two little boys watch with half-closed eyes, the ash in their lungs sealing their lips and holding them down.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Peter promises, trying not to sound too panicky, "Can you, can you walk?"

No, no, they can't, he reminds himself, because they're _two years old_ and this is a freaking _nursery_ and isn't he supposed to be a hero?

"Hey, just," Peter's already given his mask to one of them, the fireman and teachers giving him startled stares and promises to keep his secret. "It's okay, it's alright, you're going to be okay."

One of them makes a kind of gaspy movement, chest heaving and mouth opening wide, lungs filling with more ash but there's no air, nothing but ash and ash and...

The fireman gets the last two kids, finally, and Peter rolls out of the way of the falling concrete just in time, staggering to a burning pillar (everything's burning, red and orange and yellow and all he can see is Titan's sky, a burning eternal fire among ashes and rubble and _he can't breathe_ ) and slamming his shoulder against it even as someone fits his mask back over his head, a vague blur before the mask adjusts to him, eyes clearing a bit as Karen's voice reports his vitals.

"The... the kid," Peter gasps, because the kid needs the mask, he can't wear it, that's a _two-year-old, he can't_...

"It's okay, we got him out," a soothing voice says as a hand rests on his shoulder, "The fire got into oil in the kitchen, so we're having a bit of difficulty getting rid of it. Can you walk, Spider-man?"

"Yeah, I," Peter lifts the mask to his nose and keels over and vomits, knees in the wreckage as the distant voice repeats, _we've got to go, Spider-man_. "Yeah," he gasps, "Yeah, okay. Sorry. Sorry. I..."

"It's okay," the soft hand pulls him out of the building and Peter tries not to flinch each time the rubble falls, tries not to flinch as he feels the ash rubbing against his skin with every movement of his nose and lips and each breath he takes. "You're safe. The kids are safe. Everyone is safe."

"Right, yeah," Peter swallows and very carefully does not think of the fragility of life, the ease in which the world crumbled all around him as he faded as easily as the building with pleas on his lips and Mr. Stark in his arms. "I, uh, I gotta go," His voice sounds gravelly, kind of like Christain Bale's Batman which is kind of funny except it's really not, "You know, people to save, webs to swing, that kind of," he coughs, "...stuff."

"Right," the shapes clear into view and Peter sees a lady in black raising an eyebrow at him, "Somehow I find that hard to believe when it seems like you're seconds from dying."

"Aren't we all?" Peter jokes and the disapproving frown finds it to be a touch inappropriate (just a touch, of course).

"Are you breathing alright?" The lady asks, no-nonsense and firm.

"Yeah, I," Peter smiles a bit when he realizes what's happening, "Are you diagnosing me?"

Lady in black raises an eyebrow and points at her sleeve, where there's a neat little cross stitched. Huh. Peter hadn't noticed that before. "It's kind of my job," she says, with a twitch of a smile. "Besides, I can't exactly let one of New York's heroes die on my watch, now can I?"

"Oh, you think that I'm," Peter smiles a bit, "Cool. Yeah. But, um, I," he clears his throat, "You need to go help the others. I've got an AI in my suit that can help me with this kind of stuff."

This time, _both_ of the paramedic's eyebrows go up. "An AI," she seems unimpressed, "In your suit."

"Yeah. Mr. St- Iron Man, Iron Man- built it for me, see? So I have a cool AI that can... wait, wait, just let me... Karen, Interrogation Mode."

He can hear Karen sigh before she says, "Turning on Interrogation Mode."

"See?" Peter giggles a bit when he hears Interrogation Mode again, and then laughs because _gosh_ , his giggle sounds super weird over Interrogation Mode. "Okay, Karen, Interrogation Mode off."

"Okay," The paramedic's expression softens and she smiles ever so slightly, "Well if you happen to find an injury or an instance in which your suit is a bit lacking, I'm Nurse Temple at the hospital three blocks from here. Just ask for Claire Temple, okay? I know a thing or two about vigilantes who can't keep their stitches shut, so I'll keep my mouth shut about your identity."

"Okay, cool. Awesome. Coolio. Chill. You're uh," Peter sticks his hand out, grinning, "Thanks, Miss Temple."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs and shakes his hand, "Like I said, no point in you dying on my watch, right, kid?"

Peter pouts and immediately pulls his hand away, "I'm not a kid," he sulks.

"You just called me Miss Temple," Nurse Temple laughs a bit, "Kid, I know a devout _Catholic_ and even me doesn't call me Miss."

"Oh, okay, well," Peter has no excuse, "Well."

"No big deal, kid," Nurse Temple patted his shoulder, "I mean, I can't stop you, right? Even if I wanted to, you'd just keep doing it. Nothing can stop you."

Peter grins, "Yeah, well. I'm supposed to be a hero, right?"

"Right," Nurse Temple grins approvingly, "Sure you can't stay a while?"

"W _ell_ ," Peter is tempted to stay. He really is. Nurse Temple is nice and he wants to check on the kids and it's nice to stay like this with a shock blanket that she had somehow draped over him sometime in their conversation but... "You have work to do, and so do I."

 _Not to mention_ , Peter thinks, stomach churning, there's ash on his fingers and it's making him sick.

Nurse Temple has something in her eyes, that mix between pity and understanding, that makes Peter think _ah, she really does know vigilantes personally_ , and she says, "Yeah, kid. See you around."

"See you," Peter waves, says his usual little 'hi's and 'you're super cool, Mr. Firefighter's to the people there, and then swings off.

* * *

"Okay," May's a bit frazzled, but hey, that's okay, what's life without a little bit of adrenaline and the feeling of being overwhelmed? "Okay, so, there was a fire," Peter nods into her chest, breath still hitching, his back jerking up every once in a while with each new sob, "And you got covered in ash," it's a bit hard not to notice that it's _everywhere_ , you almost can't see the red of his suit beneath the caked layer of gray, "And now..." you know what? Summarizing was a bad idea. Very pointless. Kind of stupid.

Okay.

Fine.

 _Very stupid_. May should be thinking. Planning. Telling Peter the next step, how to carry on, give him a step-by-step of what they were going to do next and give him the outline of the plan and keep him moving and make sure he doesn't start hyperventilating.

"Want to get changed, sweetie?" May asks, and Peter flinches a bit, and May thinks, okay, nope, that's not happening, but slowly, gradually, Peter uncurls from her grasp, the arch of his spine first and the rest of his body following.

"Yeah, I," Peter shoves his hand through his hair, "Yeah, I think. I, I think that I need a shower, too, but I don't know if... I'm not sure if I can..." He trails off, looking so lost and pathetic that it makes May's heartache.

"Okay, that's fine," May smooths her fingers down Peter's cheeks, resting his jawline on the flat of her palm, "How about a bubble bath, hm? I got a sample kit from a coworker today, she got it at the mall but it turns out that she was allergic. It's really nice, I've got a galaxy bath bomb and everything. I'll draw it up and then when you're doing your hair, I'll put the suit in the washing machine."

"Just a, um," Peter scrambles to put the mask back on and May pretends not to notice when his breath hitches ever so slightly, "Karen, is it okay if we put you in a washing machine?" There's a prominent pause as he listens to... the AI in the suit, May supposes... and then he nods, "Okay, yeah. Cool. Awesomesauce." He rips off the mask and hands it to May with an eager grin. "A real-life bubble bath?" He's practically bouncing. "Like in the books?"

"Even better than in the books," May promises, trying to pretend that it doesn't break her heart when Peter seems so happy over something so small.

(It's not right, not when May had vowed with Ben to never let Peter feel the costs of what it was like to lack money, not when they scrambled over their budget to make room for three when they could barely budget for two.)

" _Awesome_ ," Peter breathes.

"Yeah," May smiles, ignoring the whisper in her head of _you're terrible you're awful can't you provide for your child_ , "Awesome."

* * *

Tony drops by while Peter's still in the bath, grease on his cheeks and a package of way-too-expensive tea in his hands as he says unapologetically, "The suit said that the kid was reading high heart rate and bad panicky brain signals?"

"I suppose that that is certainly one way to put it," May smiles a bit, a sort of weary amusement reflected in the way that she holds herself, arms over her chest and shoulder against the doorway. "He's taking a bath right now."

"Oh. Great. Nice, uh," Tony clears his throat, "I'll, uh, take my leave, then?"

"Don't bother," May steps aside and waves Tony in, "We both know that you'll be staring at his vitals for the next hour if I don't let you in."

Tony laughs nervously, "I don't..."

May doesn't say anything.

Tony clears his throat, "Yeah, okay, fine, point. So I'm a bit fond of the kid."

"I hate to break it to you, Tony, but this is way past fond," May plucks the tea from his fingers and examines it, "Ah, exotic. I can't even read half of these letters."

Tony turns bright red, "Pepper recommended it."

"Then I'm sure that it tastes great," May made her way to the kitchen and pulled out a pan, "Milk tea or just with water?"

"Just with water," Tony resigned himself to a cup of tea, knowing that any attempt at refusal would be futile. "Is he doing okay?"

"Probably not," May began to heat up some water on low heat, watching the pan on the stove for a moment before glancing at Tony, "But he's going to be. You can bet on that. And he will be, eventually, whether you would have come here or not. I'm here, and he's very resilient."

"Right, ah," Tony played with his arc reactor, fingers tracing the edges and tapping at edges, "Of course he is."

May hummed, smiling ever so slightly, "Yes, of course, he is."

"FRIDAY said that he saved two-year-olds from a burning building," Tony glanced at the bathroom door, as though expecting Peter to burst out any moment in full Spider-man attire, "He gave one of them his mask to keep them from getting ash in their lungs, and every minute, he'd switch so that they'd both be able to breathe properly, because I made the mask so that it filtered out ash and dust and poisons and..."

Something catches in his breath, and May watches as he crumples over, burying his face in his hands.

"That was very kind of you," she says, because she isn't quite sure which is kinder, to look and watch a strong man break or to look away and act as though she doesn't notice. "You also saved those two-year-olds, then."

"I couldn't save the kid," Tony mumbles into his wrists.

"All things considering," May turns off the water when it starts to steam a bit, "And by that I mean him being alive and well, taking a bath, eating properly, getting his RESP filled in by a millionaire and having a therapist paid for by said millionaire, having a healthy support system and a suit to keep him safe... I could keep going, but I'm sure that you'd rather not sit here for the next millennia... I'd say you did just fine in helping keep him okay."

Tony laughs a bit at that. "You sure?" He asks, half teasing, mostly serious.

"Sure. Well," May inclines her head as the sound of the bath being let out starts gurgling, water undoubtedly racing down the tub as Peter rinses himself with the little bucket they keep for such purposes, "I'd say ask him yourself, but you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

"Yes, well," Tony smiles at her, "That's the kid for you."

"Yeah," May agrees, smiling proudly, "That's my kid for you."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Okay, I tried _so_ hard to avoid this, but it's done. It's happened. This is now officially canon-divergent. (Also, let's face it, half of my word count is just "Mr." or "Dr." because PETER INSISTS ON SAYING "Mr. Stark" like a five-year-old or something.

* * *

"I'm not saying that _Pulp Fiction_ was a bad movie," MJ reiterates as she moves into a down dog, stretching out her calves and biting back a yawn. "I'm just saying that it was a product of its time, Samuel L. Jackson swore a bit too much, and there was literally, what, two girls?"

"They were gangsters, though," May copies her movement as MJ smoothly transitions to a Warrior I position, "I mean, gangsters were mostly male, right?"

"Not really," Peter curls his toes experimentally, carefully watching MJ for guidance, "I mean, there were tons of female gangsters, like the Kissing Bandit and Mack Truck and Bonnie from _Bonnie and Clyde_ , it's just that men are more likely to be immortalized in history due to the sexism of the times. While females were dangerous, men's pride prevented them from reporting crimes many times or from daring to call them real threats even if they were."

"At least it wasn't _The Princess Bride_ ," MJ sighed.

They all groaned in unison.

May sighed, "Patriarchy at it's finest."

" _Oh_ , yeah," MJ wrinkled her nose and sighed as she moved into Warrior II. "I mean, the most successful pirate in the world, Shi Yang, was basically erased from history because she was Asian and female. While it's true that there was incredible sexism in the past and most women were branded weak or forced into subservient roles, that doesn't mean that we should erase the history of females who committed great atrocities. Men aren't the only ones who can be evil or badass."

A smile made it's way to May's lips, "You two know so much," she laughed, "I see that you've been rubbing off on Peter, MJ."

"He's going to be my secretary when I become the President," MJ inclined her head, "He's going to need to know this stuff."

"Wait," Peter squawked, "Your _secretary_?"

"For the _President_ ," MJ stressed, transitioning to Warrior III, "After this, we'll go to butterfly and cool down. Anyway, being the secretary is a very important job. National security and all that."

"But..." Peter floundered, "I thought I'd be something cooler."

"Well, Ned's going to be the Vice-President... unless Pepper Potts agrees to be mine, which I don't think would happen, but a girl can dream... so you can't be that. Let's face it, you're way too soft-hearted to be one of my advisors..."

"I am not soft-hearted!"

MJ shot Peter a skeptical stare.

"Peter, sweetie," May sighed, "You made me breakfast in bed last week."

"It was a Saturday! You had just worked three-night shifts!"

MJ and May exchanged looks as though to say _point proven_.

"Okay, but that doesn't..."

"Spider-man," MJ cut Peter off, shooting him with a pointed stare. "Peter. Spider-man was literally built on you being soft-hearted."

Peter deflated as they all sank down to a butterfly position, "Okay, yeah, fine. Point taken."

MJ offered him a smug smile. "I know."

"Nothing wrong with being soft-hearted, sweetie," May reassured Peter, kissing his forehead and smiling as she returned to her yoga mat.

"Okay, thanks, May," Peter turned bright red, "Can we please go back to talking about the sexism in _The Princess Bride_?"

"Nope," MJ grinned, "It's too late. We've moved on. That's old news."

"It was old news twenty years ago," Peter scrunched up his nose, "I hardly think that we can avoid it."

"We're done," MJ popped up from her position and stretched her arms over her head, "Sorry, Peter, talking about movies is out of style now."

Peter scowled, "The internet would say otherwise."

"You're adorable," MJ patted the top of Peter's head, "Okay, May, I'm heading out."

"There's a box of cookies for you on the counter," May called out.

MJ popped her head in through the door, "Homemade?"

"No."

MJ's head disappeared again, "Thanks for the gift!"

"No problem!"

The door clicked shut behind MJ, leaving Peter and May to roll up the yoga mats.

"Speaking of Spider-man," Peter fidgeted.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead," May laughed, kissing Peter's forehead, "I told you that I'd let you patrol after yoga, didn't I? Sure that you're not too tired?"

"No, it was relaxing," Peter grinned as he put his yoga mat back into the closet, "Thanks, May."

"I know, I'm the best," May winked, "Go have fun, kiddo."

* * *

There's this piano on the second floor of Peter's school. Nobody knows why it's there (or why it was painted bright pink) but it's almost always occupied by someone.

So it's strange in moments like this when the piano bench is bare and the second floor is quiet, devoid of any sound.

"Oi," Peter nudged MJ, "You should go play."

"Me, play?" MJ shot Peter a withering stare, "I can't play the piano, Peter."

"Oh," Peter frowned, "I thought that you knew how."

"Because I know everything?" MJ bumped her shoulder against Peter's teasingly.

Peter turned bright red, " _No_!" He squeaked.

"You're so cute," MJ laughed, "Besides, even if I wanted to play, there's already someone playing."

"What do you mean?" Peter whirled around to the bench, "What... it was empty just a minute ago..."

And that was when he heard it.

Flash Thompson playing the Batman theme song on the piano.

"Oh my god," He distantly heard MJ whisper, "Peter's superhero button has been pushed."

Before he knew it, he had floated over to the piano, feet moving before his brain could work and Peter crouched at the side of the piano, eyes shining as he watched Flash go through the chords, left hand flying through octaves smoothly.

 _The issue here_ , Peter thinks to himself, _isn't even that Flash doesn't like me._

No, the issue here is that Peter doesn't even like Flash all that much, except, except, _except_ , "You're so good!" Peter gasps when Flash finishes, clapping his hands together in front of his chest, and the issue is that it _isn't even ironic._ He is dead serious. He can't hold it back, he just has to say it, "Those chords near the end, there, when you went," he wiggles his fingers, "You know, like when you had the little..." he makes a very off tune trill in the back of his throat, "...with your left hand? That was so _cool_ , and it was just your pinky and fourth finger and it was just... can you teach me that?"

"I, uh," Flash seemed, for once, at loss for words. Maybe it was the shock. "It's, um, not that impressive."

"Well, _I_ thought that it was," Peter crossed his arms over his chest, "If you don't want to teach me, you can just say so."

"No, it's fine, I just..." Flash slides on the bench to make room for Peter, "Here, if you put your fingers in this position..."

Peter's lunch is forgotten.

* * *

"Okay, kid, it's cool, it's fine," Distinctly, Peter thinks that Mr. Stark's voice sounds very not-fine. "You're okay, it's alright," And he's babbling now, talking about Peter's wound and how it's not that serious and it would kind of be funny if Peter wasn't kind of bleeding out or anything.

"It's fine," Peter kind of laughs anyway because he'll be fine, and Mr. Stark being so panicky isn't really a sight that you anyway, "Don't worry about it, Mr. Stark."

Dr. Banner ( _Bruce Banner! In the flesh!_ ) shines a light into Peter's eyes, and says half disapprovingly, half relieved, "Thankfully, he doesn't seem to have a concussion."

"There you go!" Peter makes vague arm type gestures at Dr. Banner, "Listen to him! He's, like, a deity of the science world, it's practically a rule to listen to him."

" _I'm_ a deity of the science world, too," Mr. Stark sounds a bit put out, very petulant, "Why does Bruce overrule me?"

"Uh..." Peter can't really think of a logical explanation for that, "...because you like me too much."

In the background, he hears someone snicker. Possibly Hawkeye. "He's got you there, Stark," the snicker human says and yep, definitely Hawkeye.

"Take that!" Peter says triumphantly, "Hawkeye agrees with me!" He wheels around and ignores Mr. Stark's panicked shouts as he kind of sort of maybe drips a bit more blood from his torso, "Thanks, Mr. Hawkeye!"

Hawkeye finger guns at him and if Peter weren't 100% sure that Iron Man was his favourite real-life superhero, he'd definitely be reconsidering.

"Aw, thanks, kiddo," Hawkeye says, and Mr. Stark looks inordinately pleased, and, ah, he must have said that out loud.

"I'm your favourite?" Mr. Stark smiles a bit bashfully.

"Yes, and your favourite is still bleeding out, Tones," Dr. Banner reminds Mr. Stark.

Peter groans as Mr. Stark's expression shifts from bashful to alarmed. "Did you have to remind him?" He groans.

"Yes," Dr. Banner is utterly unapologetic and Peter both loves and hates him for that. "You're kind of dying, kid."

"Well, Mr. _Stark_ doesn't need to know that," Peter is not pouting, because he is not a child, but if he _were_ pouting, it would be utterly and completely valid.

"No, he's right," And Mr. Stark is back to freaking out as Hawkeye makes fun of him for being a dad and Peter holds back a laugh as Dr. Banner looks like he regrets everything that he's said in the last five minutes.

Which, really, Peter reflects as he's wheeled out of the infirmary in a wheelchair to be hugged by May with Mr. Stark standing by tapping his fingers and looking ready to pounce on Peter at any second, he honestly ought to be.

"You can hug me, too," Peter laughs, and it's a group hug, which is very, very nice.

Yes, this is very, very nice.

* * *

 **A/N:** This is different from usual. Why, you ask? I wish I knew.


	9. Chapter 9

"You like parks?" Tony asks conversationally as Peter climbs into the car. He holds back a sharp grin, deliberately holding back any wide smile at Peter's surprise as he readjusts his tinted sunglasses. "I do. Parks are pretty great. Except when there are kids around. Then it's so-so for me."

Peter gapes.

Tony allows himself a small smile. Alright, fine, he'll give the kid some time to recover from the shock. "There's a park with swings on it somewhere near here," He says casually, "But they're too small for me. So I decided to build one. A lot cheaper than I expected, really. Pepper was getting mad at me like no tomorrow until I promised her a tire swing, you know that? She loves those things, apparently. Who would have thought, hm? Well. I mean. I did. But you shouldn't hold that against yourself, there's only one of me and I'm the one building the park, so it works out. Did you say something?"

"Mr. Stark!" The kid squeaks, finally regaining his voice, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm offended," Tony says flippantly as Happy wheels them out to the street, "Really. I own the car, kid. Not a big deal for me to be in it, hm? More of a miracle that you're in it, honestly. I own it, you don't, I should be surprised to see you. Do you see me going all 'kid, what are you doing here'? Nah. Didn't think so." He readjusts his sunglasses and tries not to show any pain when they brush against his black eye, "I come to see you out of concern and you just want to get rid of me."

"No, that's not," Peter quickly scrambles, "That's not what I meant, Mr. Stark, and you know it!"

Wow.

Okay.

That was a lot more intrepid than he expected.

"That was a lot more intrepid than I expected," Tony admits, inclining his head, "Power to you for being straight with me."

"No, that's not," Peter makes a frustrated little growly noise in the back of his throat. It's adorable. Tony regrets not recording it. "That's not what I meant, Mr. Stark. I love seeing you. It's great to see you. Why are you here, in the car, with me?"

"I built a park," Tony says, and Peter looks irritated at how blithe it comes off, "You're like, small. A small human, yes? Small humans, according to common belief, are fond of parks. So I came to take you, a small human, to a park."

Peter looks an admirable mix of excited, fond, and ready to bash Tony's head through the car door. "That's very nice of you, Mr. Stark," he says wearily, and Tony can't help it.

He laughs.

"Don't have to pretend to be excited, kid," Tony tilts the rearview mirror so that he can see Peter's reflection in it, "It's more like a training place if you want to think of it that way. Lots of monkey bars, some targets, maybe a slide or two but I built those for me, not you."

Peter slouches in his seat, "You said that there was a _tire swing_ ," he grouses before seeming to remember himself, and adds, "Mr. Stark."

The kid is too cute.

"Of course there's a tire swing," Tony grins, "it's a park."

"But you just said... okay, fine, you know what..." Peter buries his face in his hands, "I like parks. Parks are great. Thank you for building me a park, Mr. Stark."

Park, Stark. It rhymes. Heh.

"I never said that it was for you," Tony raises an eyebrow, one edge of his lips lifting up in a smirk, "I built the park for me. If I wanted to build a park for you, I'd dismantle half of your apartment building or something..." he pointedly ignores Peter's _that's illegal or expensive_ from the backseat, "...but as it is, is your apartment building torn in half? Is the lobby an indoor playground? No? I didn't think so. That's because it's not for you. It's for me."

He almost wants to add a childish _so there_.

"Okay, Mr. Stark," the kid is a horrifying mix between amused and resigned, "It's for you. Do I get to play on it?"

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. Pretends to think. "If you really want to," he says as dramatically as he can, "Then I suppose it's alright."

Peter laughs from the back seat and Tony's heart totally doesn't melt. What are you talking about? His heart is ice cold. Frozen.

(Okay. Fine. His heart melts, just a little.)

* * *

"I can breathe," Peter says, and it's a lie, it's such a lie, he knows it and Ned knows it except neither of them really can do anything except attempt to reassure each other that it's okay and both knowing that they're lying to the other's face and that the other knows that they're lying but they can't stop lying because if they don't lie then they'll be telling the truth and the truth, as of the moment, looks kind of sort of seriously scary.

Okay.

You know what.

"No, you can't!" Ned groans, "You're literally hyperventilating into my garbage can!"

"My face isn't in the garbage can," Peter insists.

His face is totally in the garbage can.

It's not exactly his fault, but.

"Dude. You _just_ threw up," Ned wraps his arms around Peter's torso, pretending not to notice when Peter stiffens underneath his hands (he ignores the shrill screech in his head of _this isn't right stop he isn't comfortable_ because he knows that Peter keeping his face in the garbage can where his vomit is won't help anything) as he lifts Peter up (when did he get so heavy? when he became Spider-man? Peter has always been light, MJ used to make fun of him for it) and deposits him on the bed. "It's okay to feel sick."

Peter tumbles from his arms and curls up on the bed, still facing the garbage can just in case (even though Ned is pretty sure he's gotten rid of everything in his system now) as he chokes out a harsh, "Sorry," through gasping breaths.

"Keep apologizing and you will be," Ned says, an attempt at humour, but it falls a bit flat.

Peter curls up into Ned's legs, nose against Ned's knees as he tries to regain his breath (try being the operative word).

"Hey, it's okay, man," Ned tries to figure out what to do, and after a long time of possibly unnecessary hesitation decides that copying his mom is the way to go so he starts running his fingers through Peter's hair. (That's a mom thing, right? Ned's mom does it and it makes him feel better when he's sick. He hopes that it's the same for Peter.) "I shouldn't have made you help me clean my room anyway."

Peter laughs.

It's a breathy, uncomfortable thing that's half-wheeze, half-snort, and Ned will admit it, he loves it.

He likes that Peter can laugh.

That means that he isn't completely in Full Panic Attack Mode.

(Granted, part-time Panic Attack Mode is also not the best, but it's better than full-time.)

"Worst friend ever," Peter agrees in what's probably meant to be a teasing tone of voice, but his voice cracks on the _ever_. "How could you. For shame. To exploit me like this, without care for my well being. I can't even."

Ned can't help it.

He cracks up.

(Just a bit, mind you.)

"Shut up," Ned keeps carding his fingers through Peter's hair, "Look, how was I supposed to know that sweeping my room was a bad idea? I'd been raised to believe that it was a good thing. Cut me some slack."

"Nope," Peter pops the _p_ , the way that he always does when he tries to be casual (and ultimately fails because he is Peter Human Disaster Parker, but that's okay because Ned's his friend and thus will always be there to laugh at Peter when he does something lame. Or, you know. Call him out when he's trying to hide the fact that he's panicking a heckuva lot). "Sorry, no slack. Very little breathing room. You're practically in a corset. No forgiveness. Death sentence seems appropriate."

"And here I thought that we were friends," Ned says, as dramatically as he can under the circumstances (which is to say, he flings his head back and presses his free hand against his chest and pulls a laugh from Peter's lips). "To turn on me so quickly!"

"Lies," Peter says, "We were never truly friends."

"My heart," Ned gestures at his nonexistent heart on the ground, "Shattered. In pieces."

"Thankfully, you won't survive," Peter closes his eyes.

"Thankful for you or me?" Ned asks.

Peter hums, "Thanks for sticking with me," he says quietly into Ned's knee. Which. Okay. Wow.

"Talk about mood whiplash," Ned mumbles, trying very hard to suppress his urge to hug Peter. "You can't just pull out a line like that on me, Peter. It's very unfair. Practically goes against the rules of friendship."

Peter makes a sound that's almost a laugh but is too faint to fully be one. "I can't believe that I got triggered by _sweeping the floor_ ," he says, a bit desperately.

Ned could make a joke about how it's a convenient trigger, how now Peter has an excuse to avoid housecleaning, except he knows that Peter actually likes sweeping the floor, putting on the Beatles and twirling around in his socks with his aunt. "Nothing wrong with that," Ned says instead, "I mean, after the whole glitter incident, I don't think that anything could phase me anymore, so it's chill."

"Chill," Peter snorts. Like he doesn't quite believe it.

"Yeah," Ned closes his eyes. Tries to pretend he's not thanking every constellation that he knows that Peter's no longer throwing up and hyperventilating on his bedroom floor. "As ice."

Peter hums into his hand. Ned can feel the vibrations on his knee, which feels kind of funny and comforting at the same time. "Read me a story?"

"So demanding," Ned reaches for the nearest book anyway, "How do you feel about John Green?"

"Turtles All the Way Down?" Peter asks hopefully.

"You know it," Ned flips to the first page and snickers, "I can't believe that you nearly decked Cindy for not liking this."

"She was wrong on all the levels," Peter grumbles. "She didn't even appreciate _Daisy_."

"I know, I know," Ned pats Peter's head consolingly and begins to read.

His voice is a bit weird sounding and he trips over words, but Peter's breathing begins to even out and around the tenth chapter Ned gets up and sort of throws a blanket over Peter before closing his curtains and finishes sweeping the room.

Yeah, fine, it's a bit weird to have a friend who freaks out over dust and earnestly does stuff like ask to be read a bedtime story but Ned has always liked Peter for refusing to be anything but purely _Peter_ and Ned likes that he has a friend who can chuck his broom to the ground and yell _Help_ (he doesn't really like when said friend drops to the floor like a stone afterwards, but maybe that's just him) and a friend who can talk about that kind of stuff.

When Peter wakes up, they build a Lego motorcycle and then search up random facts about the origins of dressers.


	10. Chapter 10

"Budgeting again?" Peter asks, leaning over May's shoulder to squint at the spreadsheet that she has open on the computer. "Did we end up using too much money?"

"No, nothing like that," May offered Peter a small, content sigh as he kissed her on the cheek and put down his glass of water. "It's just, now that I don't have to put money in your RESP anymore, I can move the budgeting to other areas, see? We can take the 5% and move it to Emergency Funds to put in our RRSP."

"Sounds great," Peter beamed as he pulled up a chair to sit down next to May, "What about investing more money in our GIC? Then later, we'll have more, since there's a higher interest, right?"

"True," May chewed on her lower lip, "Hm. I'll think about it." She closed her laptop and turned to Peter, smiling as she asked, "Aren't you supposed to be watching a movie with MJ and Ned?"

Peter sighed, "MJ got her period and Ned got the flu. Both of them are throwing up and I'm not allowed to visit either. _So_..." he twiddled his thumbs, "I was thinking that I could spend some time with my favourite aunt instead?"

"Cheeky," May laughed, "I'm your only aunt."

"And by default, favourite," Peter agreed.

May couldn't exactly argue with that logic, "Okay, Mr. Favourite Nephew," she ignored Peter's laugh, "What is the plan for today?"

"It's up to you!" Peter beamed, taking a sip of his water and putting the glass back down. "Today is May Day, where May is the boss."

"I'll have you know that that sounds like just about every other day," May tweaked Peter's nose as she stood up, her chair scraping back as she tucked her laptop under her arm, "But if you insist, I suppose that I could stand to boss you around a bit."

"Fantastic," Peter grinned. "Lead on, Lady May."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, young steward," May ruffled the top of Peter's head, "Finish that glass and wash your cup, then we'll discuss."

Peter downed the cup with startling speed, choking a bit when he finished and pouting when May laughed at him. "Done!" He exclaimed as he jumped over the kitchen island ( _jumped._ Of course, _she'd_ get the parkour superpowered kid) and soaped the rim of the cup, rinsing it in deft, practiced movements and twists of his wrists.

"Okay, okay, I'll bite," May leaned on her elbows, "You look pretty excited. Anything that you're planning to do?"

"...No?" Peter was _vibrating_.

"Mm-hm," May agreed skeptically, "C'mon, kiddo. Don't hold out on me."

"We _-ell_ ," Peter stretched out the word, letting it sit on his tongue and twist in his throat, "One of MJ's mom's friends opened a new cafe."

Somehow, May was unsurprised. MJ's mother was exactly the sort of woman who would befriend a business owner, and MJ was constantly telling Peter about the business plans, drawing out income statements on their cafeteria napkins as they discussed the budgeting and how to handle the revenue and minimize expenses. "And here I thought that you wanted me to be the boss," she teased Peter.

"I was planning to go with MJ," Peter excused himself.

"Of course," May wiped her hands, "So I get to nix it if I want?"

"Completely," Peter bobbed his head up and down, earnest to the core, absolutely endearing himself to her.

"Well, who am I to say no?" May pulled her hair back into a ponytail, "I guess that we can splurge a little. I suppose that I don't need to change the budget, after all, we'll just spend your education money on irresponsible cafe visits."

"Absolutely not," Peter wrinkled his nose, scandalized, "Let's just use my allowance."

"And here I thought that you were saving up for an Ozobot," May raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Peter to use his allowance for little whims, he typically liked to save up for big and expensive things.

"I was," Peter sighed, brushing a curl from his forehead, "But then Mr. Stark built one with me."

Ah.

Of course.

May couldn't help but smile at that, "He spoils you rotten," she tweaked Peter's nose as they stepped out of the apartment, Peter waiting patiently to the side as May locked the door shut with a little _click_.

"I know," Peter sighed, pretending to be exasperated (though they both knew how fond he was of Tony). "At this rate, he's just going to hand me a job as soon as I graduate high school."

"Of course he won't," May rolled her eyes.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"He'll get you an internship in grade 12," May continued blithely, just barely holding back a laugh when she caught sight of Peter's expression. (She didn't mention sitting in the Avengers Compound with Pepper Potts as she went through holograms, tapping idly as she asked, _do you think that he'd prefer R &D? Tony wants to make him CEO, but from what I can tell Peter prefers working with robots to working with paperwork all day_ as May sighed and shook her head _not even letting him have a chance?_ and Pepper offered a sharp grin _like hell we'll let any of the other companies grab him_.)

Peter sighed, puffing out his cheeks before they reached the stairs, Peter skidding down the steps and jumping the last five as May followed slowly behind him. "Mr. Stark wouldn't show favouritism like that," he said confidently.

 _Oh, Peter_ , May smiled, _if only you knew._

Both of them were absolutely ridiculous.

"It wouldn't even be nepotism," May mused as they reached the bottom of the stairs, Peter holding open the door for her in a grand bow and gesture. "Thank you, good sir."

"My pleasure, fair lady." Peter waited until she had walked a few steps down the street before bouncing down after her, "Did you know that it's illegal in France to name a pig Napolean?"

"Oh?" May raised an eyebrow, "What's the history behind this?"

"Well, in the 1800s..."

* * *

Peter's fingers skim over the piano lightly, soft touches and light pressure as Tony drapes himself over Pepper.

"Just look at him," Tony sighs with all the pride of a young father, "He's so brilliant."

"It's your piano, Tony," Pepper says, amused as she runs her fingers through Tony's hair, "If I recall correctly, you can play, too."

"Yeah, but," Tony pouts, "Just _listen_ to him."

Pepper raises an eyebrow, laughing a little as she asks, "Are you sure that you're not biased just because he's playing Poker Face on the piano?"

Tony gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as he leans back, dramatically whispering as loud as he dares, "How could you say such a thing? Acting as though I'm biased just because Peter is playing nostalgic trashy pop..." He sighs at Pepper's expression, "Lady Gaga is awesome and if I were to fight you on anything, I am willing for it to be on Lady Gaga because I am _that_ willing to defend her."

"High praise from a man who wasn't willing to fight me over who owned the property," Pepper taps Tony's nose, "Are you going to go join him?"

Tony stills, eyes darting to Peter and then back to Pepper. He licks his lips and laughs awkwardly, "I don't really remember how to play."

"Nonsense," Pepper curls her fingers against the back of Tony's head, pressing her forehead to his as she sighs, "Go have fun."

"What if I ruin the mood?" Tony asks, almost childishly.

"Then he'll hate you forever," Pepper rolled her eyes at Tony's faux offended expression, "C'mon, Tony. You know that it'll be okay. You can watch and regret later, or you can join him now and make some good memories."

Tony flexes his hands, opens and closes them nervously, almost unconsciously. "I'm not very good at it," he mumbles, "I only play it for you."

Pepper moves away, smiling, small and curved, as she says, "Because you love me."

"Because I love you," Tony agrees dopily.

"Great," Pepper shoves Tony off of the couch, "Then there's no problem. You love the kid, the kid loves you, you seem to be able to express your love through music... which is weirdly cheesy coming from you... get a move on."

Tony gapes at her from his sprawled position on the floor.

"Love you," Pepper adds, a bit of an afterthought.

Tony squawks a bit.

In their conversation, they failed to notice when the piano music stops. "Whoa, Mr. Stark, you can play the piano?" Peter beams, wide-eyed in awe as he looks down at Tony, who is remaining in his undignified heap on the floor.

"I... uh..." Tony leaps up, nearly banging his head on the coffee table as he straightens and smoothes down his crumpled Metallica shirt. "Yeah, just a, just a little. No big deal, you know, I'm no Mozart..."

There are stars in Peter's eyes as he wraps his hands around Tony's arms, practically dragging him ( _sheesh_ , the kid is strong) to the piano as he asks excitedly, "Do you think that you could play for me?"

Tony coughs.

Clears his throat.

Glances at Pepper.

She smirks at him.

Ugh.

If he wasn't so lazy, he'd go over and start a pillow fight or something.

"I guess..." Tony starts his fingers on low E flat and C, fingers moving in a smooth pattern that used to make his stomach roll unpleasantly, "It's, uh, not very good, though."

His fingers feel odd, stumbling a bit as he plays through the _Solfeggio_ from memory, and his chest flutters a bit, remembering the anxious little boy playing to perfection.

"You're so good!" Peter exclaims when Tony finishes, clapping his hands together and laughing. He looks like a kid on Christmas. "Do you know anything else?"

Tony grins a bit, "Well, I played the Notebook for Pepper..."

Before he knows it, he's leading Peter through _The Notebook_ , the two of them trying to play a duet of _God Help the Outcasts_ and they end up piled together in the living room, Pepper and Peter squishing Tony in a sandwich as they watch _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ , singing ridiculously off key (except Pepper actually sounds amazing, no, he's not biased, what are you talking about) to the songs and yelling at Frollo when he's being stupid, which, honestly, is every time that he appears on screen.

Somewhere through the movie the kid sticks his foot on Tony's cheek, Tony gasps dramatically, a pillow fight ensues and they get distracted until the last scene with Esmeralda about to burn appears and they remember that they were watching a movie.

They flop down again, this time with tubs of ice cream that they borrowed (read: stole. They did not belong to Rhodey what are you talking about) from the freezer, occasionally reaching over to try and steal a scoop of each other's and fighting with spoons (in the end, Tony freely surrenders his chocolate chip and Pepper spoon feeds him some sorbet).

They go back to playing the piano, loud and ridiculous smashing of keys in between failed attempts at playing a song with three people.

It's lovely and perfect and Tony couldn't trade it for the world.

"Love you, Mr. Stark," Peter says sleepily as he falls asleep on the arc reactor and Tony thinks _ah, Pepper was right._

(Obviously. Pepper is always right.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning:** Swearing.

* * *

"Smile," Peter says, and that's all the warning that Tony gets before there's the familiar click of a camera, Peter grinning at Tony as the picture slides out in brightly coloured ink and he holds out the photo, grinning like a loon. "The second photo on this camera," he explains, full of pride and fondness and Tony can't help but grin back as he eyes the pastel pink camera sitting on Peter's chest.

"That new?" Tony asks, making a gimme motion.

Peter takes off the camera and puts it gently on Tony's hand, "Don't tinker with it," he warns Tony, "I like it just the way it is."

"Aw, you're no fun, webs," Tony says, but complies, examining it from all sides and poking it before turning the camera and grinning, "Smile."

"What..."

Tony clicks down, a snap of Peter, in his tousled hair and oversized Beatles shirt (Tony's pretty sure that it's _his_ shirt, actually, yeah, there's the mustard stain that he spilled on that one date with Pepper when they got attacked... okay, whatever, it's chill, Tony's used to the kid randomly stealing his clothing) and those yoga pants that he's gotten comfortable with ever since he got the Spider-suit ("It's just that the spider suit's pants feel a lot like yoga pants, okay?" Peter grumbled defensively when asked about it, very pointedly ignoring Tony's coos of how cute he was).

"You look great, kid," Tony says as the photo slides out.

"What... Mr. Stark!" Peter snatches the camera back, looking distinctly redder than he had been previously. "Why did you do that?" He runs his fingers through his hair, his little attempt at making it look less like he rolled out of bed, Tony supposes, but it's too late, the picture is already taken, and Tony holds it in his fingers.

"A trade," Tony says brusquely, glancing at the photo. (It's Peter, blinking owlishly, caught off guard, a bit fond, mostly startled, the workshop behind him and a piece of scrap metal in his hands. It's perfect, Tony thinks.) "I take this, you take that photo of me. Obviously, you got the better end of the deal..." (Liar, he thinks, the picture of Peter is far better, but Tony's got a rep to keep and he's not keeping it by being all gooshy. He literally _fell asleep_ with the kid last night, he's got to find some way to make sure his rep's not _completely_ annihilated.) "...But it'll do."

Peter gapes at Tony for a moment before smiling, fond and soft, the edges of his eyes crinkling and lips curving up, and Tony thinks that maybe Peter knows anyway, that Tony would die for him, that just a picture of him will cheer Tony up on bad days, that Tony cares more than he cares to admit.

It's ridiculous, but.

Tony thinks that his thoughts may be pouring out of his ears, dribbling from him and Peter can just _see_ it in his face, the way that Pepper sees and kisses him before he can even take the flowers out from behind his back.

(Okay, so in those cases, he's not exactly _subtle_ , but give him a break, he's trying to be romantic, not trying to infiltrate a secret underground group of ninjas.)

"Mm-hm," Peter mimics that sound kind of like the one that Pepper makes sometimes, but there's something a bit softer to it, a bit sassier. (A bit more like May, Tony thinks to himself.) "Don't make me a new camera."

Tony grins, baring his teeth and keeping his lips wide and open, "No promises," he says as carelessly as he can, with a shrug of his shoulders and a slight tilt to his head.

"Why are you like this," Peter sighs, looping the camera strap back over his head, letting it sit in that spot between his neck and shoulders, camera falling back to his chest with a muffled _thump_. It sounds so much like Pepper, exasperated and affectionate, that Tony gives a startled laugh.

"Because I _love_ you," Tony says, stretching out _love_ as long as possible, smirking.

Peter looks startled, thrown for a beat, and Tony thinks _oh no I said it shit what do I do shit I wasn't supposed to say that I loved him out loud_ before Peter smiles softly and says, hesitantly, a bit shy, "I know."

Fuck.

The kid did not just.

"Did you just quote _Star Wars_ at me?" Tony demands incredulously.

"I, um," And of course the kid immediately gets flustered, which sort of ruins the moment, but not really. "I love you, too," and he's red as a tomato, looking everywhere but at Tony and shit.

His worst fear has come true.

He's become a sap.

Because Tony doesn't even deflect, doesn't even make a crude joke (partially because he can't do that with the kid, partially because he's too attached and that is bad) he just kind of clears his throat and says, "Now that we both know that we love each other, should we get back to the robots?"

"Oh yes, definitely!" And with anyone else, it would be a deflection, but with Peter, it's just honest excitement, stars in his eyes at being in Tony's workshop and at getting the chance to work with the robots and if that's not the cutest thing ever Tony is willing to fight you. "So, while I was looking at the Ozobot I noticed that you put the LEDs near the power source so that but this also makes it so that there are fewer wires and I was wondering..."

Okay.

Fine.

There.

Tony said it out loud, he said that he loved the kid, the world didn't explode or blow up or anything dramatic like that (yet), so maybe it's okay to get attached and to love the kid a bit.

That doesn't mean that he's ever saying that out loud _ever_ _again_ , though.

* * *

" _Peter_ ," MJ grinds her teeth together, "Peter, hey, focus, focus on me, you need to breathe, you need to... okay, fine, you're breathing fine, that's chill, that's cool, stop doing that creepy stare and we'll just..."

Peter scrambles off of the balcony, skittish and fast as he goes into MJ's bedroom and bleeds onto her bath towel. Which, you know, is better than the floor, and MJ _did_ put it there for that specific purpose, but she still can't help the mental thought of _how am I going to explain that to my mom?_

"I think that you're freaking out more than me," Peter says, smiling at her a bit, and MJ scrunches her nose at him. "Just saying."

"You better be pretty badly injured if you think that you can just get away with insinuating that I panicked," MJ crosses her arms over her chest and scowls at Peter.

He grins at her, lanky finger tapping at the giant hole on his abdomen as he says, "'Tis but a scratch," and quickly raises his hands to protect his head when MJ moves to bash him in the head (gently, as gently as you can bash someone's head in) with her copy of _The Alchemist_.

"This is really not the time to be quoting _Monty Python_ ," MJ says, dropping her book onto her dresser and pulling out her first aid kit. "I mean, you've got a giant hole from who knows what-" She very pointedly ignores Peter's excited exclaimation of _Ninjas, MJ, it was so cool, they were there with katanas and they were like swoosh and kwaboosh_ because if she doesn't hear, she has no reason to hit him in the head with her book, "-from, I repeat, _who knows what_ -" Peter pouts and sighs _ninjas_ in that dreamy way that only children who have dreamed of being ninjas can say, _"-so_ if you'd avoid quoting movies..."

"It is the _perfect_ time to quote movies!" Peter protests, "That line fits _perfectly_ with the mood!"

MJ does not chuck the first aid kit at Peter because Peter is injured and apparently ninjas exist in real life and MJ is a "good friend" and thus as a good friend, she will not injure her good friend Peter.

It is a very close thing, though.

"Suit off," she sighs, making sure that her bedroom door and curtains are both firmly closed and shut as she rummages through her closet for that spare pair of pants that Ned had given her 'just in case' ( _I'm not going to need it_ MJ had said _it's not like he's going to climb in through my bedroom window_ MJ had said _you're such a worrywart_ MJ and said and look at her _now_ ) Peter crawled through her window, bleeding, in the Spider-suit, and in need of pants.

"Thanks," Peter changes quickly, seeming thankful when MJ turns away (she's not interested, MJ already knows that Peter has a sixpack). "Sorry about bleeding on your towel."

"If you'd rather die outside of my house, the towel will be fine," MJ says flatly, and Peter rubs the back of his head sheepishly.

"Does that mean that it's not a big deal?" Peter asks.

"It means that I pardon you," MJ says. (Which, yes, fine, translates into _no big deal_.)

"Thanks," Peter beams.

And if they end up with Peter falling asleep on her bed as MJ cards her fingers through his hair and reads to him _The Alchemist_ , softly in the dim light of her bedside lamp, then that is perfectly alright, in this moment.

* * *

 **A/N:** I may have a problem in which I write someone running their fingers through someone else's hair every chapter but shhh.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** KUNG FU PANDA 3 IS SO GOOD OKAY STOP READING GO WATCH IT ASAP

* * *

"I'll stay safe, May. I'll be okay, May. Don't worry, May, I've got this awesome new Spider-suit," May glared at Peter, "And yet here you are with a broken arm."

Peter winced, smiling genially in an attempt to smooth May's ruffled feathers, "It could have been worse?" He asked. His attempt at downplaying it.

Unfortunately (for him, at least), this only seemed to irritate May even further. "Worse!" She exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air, "It could be _worse,_ he says, as though I'm not _already_ worried sick about what kind of stupid, dangerous things my mutated super-son is doing out after any _normal_ child's curfew on weekends and he comes back with a broken arm and just says it could be _worse_ , as though that's some sort of lousy comfort, this ridiculous farce of..."

She continues for a bit, letting Peter sit and squirm awkwardly even as she finally pulls up into the parking lot of the Avengers Compound.

" _And_ ," May turns around, scowling at Peter, "You don't even call for help, you walk home _by yourself_ , I may add, _in the dark, in the city, back home_ and _then_ you ask me to drive you to the compound after you've gotten to the apartment which is up _how many stories_ , young man? Don't answer that, it was rhetorical, and despite knowing that I had to borrow the _neighbour's_ car..."

"Aunt May," Peter says, edging toward the car door, "Can we get my arm treated first and _then_ talk about my stupidity?"

"You... I..." May makes a growly little noise in the back of her throat, but Peter called her _Aunt_ May, the way that he does whenever he's trying to endear himself to her, and of course it works, so May just huffs, opening the car door as angrily as she dares and opening Peter's door for him. "Go get help!"

"That's the plan," Peter agreed glibly.

May looked like a volcano, ready to explode.

Making their way into the compound was slightly worrisome, because when May was angry, typically it led to crying, and May looked very much ready to both cry and judo flip someone across the compound (possibly Peter. Except Peter was injured, which was possibly one of the reasons why he was not currently being judo flipped across the compound).

"FRIDAY?" May sighed, running her fingers through her hair. She looked suitably frazzled. "Can you get whoever can fix a broken arm and point us in the right direction?"

"The medical bay is two rooms ahead, to the left," FRIDAY answered promptly, "Some of the Avengers are already inside."

"Mr. Stark?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Not yet," There was the familiar click of heels against metal as Pepper made her way down the stairs, hair put up in an impeccable bun and dressed in a formal black dress. There was something amused, possibly annoyed, but mostly resigned in her voice. "May, it's good to see you."

"Sorry to interrupt your date night," May apologized. She sounded truly apologetic, but from her expression, you couldn't tell (locked jaw, sharp eyes, raised chin. Apologetic, but she didn't regret this). "Peter broke his arm and we're heading to the infirmary."

"It's no problem," Pepper quickly made her way down the stairs and took a moment to hug May before turning to Peter and raising an eyebrow. "Your arm isn't going to fix itself by you just standing there, kiddo."

"Oh, uh, right," Peter turned red, "Thank you, Mrs. Potts."

"Get moving," Pepper made a shooing type motion, though with a bit more tact that, say, Tony, would have done it. "I'll talk to your aunt. Scott and Bruce are in there, they can help you out."

Peter immediately brightened, " _Ant-man_ is in there?" He chirped excitedly, anticipation rolling off of him in waves.

"Better go inside and check for yourself," Pepper smiled and Peter immediately bounced away, whispering excitedly to himself _omigosh I'm going to see Ant-man I wonder if he'll show me his stuff that's so cool_ and the door clicked shut behind him. Pepper laughed fondly, and turned to May, "I don't suppose you'd be up for some tequila?"

"Sorry, I'm the designated driver tonight," May smiled, waving her hand in apology. "You can get back to Tony, you know. Don't let me and my kid mess with you and your man having some romance."

"It's too late, even if I wanted to do anything," Pepper sighed, "Tony's driving himself nuts now that he knows that the kid's been injured. If I tried anything with him, he'd be all distracted. _Oh, yeah, you're naked, but my kid has a paper cut_... I swear. It's kind of nice, but at the same time, it kind of makes it hard to have nights just to ourselves."

"I know that feeling," May chuckled, "When we first got Peter, Ben and I were so obsessed with making sure his every need was taken care of that we didn't even have _a movie night_. And you know how important movie nights are."

"Oh yes," Pepper laughed. Ben and May were movie fanatics, and for them to forget movie nights was a big deal. "Well, the kid has something that makes you fond of him. I can't blame you."

May hid a smile behind her hand, "And I suppose that it's not only Tony that's too worried about Peter to continue with date night?"

"Don't ruin all my secrets," Pepper sighed, bumping her shoulder against May's. "Alright, Miss Designated Driver. If you can't have any tequila, how about some tea?"

May tilted her head forward, "Tea sounds lovely," she agreed. "But do you have any leftover ice cream?"

Pepper groaned, "I'm supposed to be on a diet," she frowned.

"That's a yes," May rubbed her hands together, "Got any cookie dough?"

" _Stop_!" Pepper buried her face in her hands, " _Diet_ , May, do you not understand the word?"

"Oh, I understand it perfectly," May offered Pepper a wicked smile, "I mean, _you_ don't have to have any..."

"Okay, okay, fine!" Pepper glanced around them as though they were conspirators, and then leaned in closer to May, "I have some peanut butter cookie dough below the pork ribs in the freezer. I'll give you half if you stop talking."

" _That's_ what I like to hear," May grinned, "Race you to the kitchen?"

"I'm in _heels_."

"Even better," May laughed, "I love winning."

"That's a shame," There was a glint in Pepper's eyes now, "Because you're not going to."

Pepper kicked off her heels, bright red pumps, and _flew_ across the room, dashing in bare feet like a madwoman and May took off after her, yelling _cheater! I didn't say start_! and the two ended up tying, laughing and clutching their sides and eating ice cream, May's fears about Peter's broken arm long forgotten, and Pepper's concerns about her diet defenestrated.

* * *

"That was reckless, what you did," Bruce says as he finishes stitching up the gaping wound on Scott's back.

He bites back the instinctive _you shouldn't have done it_ because that would be hypocritical and he can't say that not when he knows that he would have done the same had Tony not held him back, not when he also saw the five-year-old girl desperately trying to outrun the falling building and not when he knows that Scott was the only one who was close enough to save her.

"No worries, doc, I'm not typically this reckless," Scott says, grinning amiably, which is true typically but not when children are involved. Scott has a soft spot for them, and that tends to get him in trouble on missions like these.

"You keep telling yourself that," Bruce mutters skeptically, and he's just finished up and about to put his supplies away when FRIDAY reports.

"Spider-man has broken his arm and is coming to the infirmary for help right now."

Bruce doesn't really get a chance to respond before the doors slide open and Peter grins nervously at them, waving as he asks awkwardly, "How are Y'all doing?"

Bruce looks at Scott, narrowing his eyes when he catches the expression on Scott's face, barely managing to curse, "Don't you _dare_ ," before Scott says _sorry, doc,_ and bursts into laughter, aggravating his wound and his stitches.

Bruce is ready to strangle someone.

Preferably Scott, but he'll take Tony if that's not possible.

(Kidding. Mostly.)

"I'm doing great," Scott says, which, no he isn't, because he's _bleeding_ , but, okay, fine, whatever, who's Bruce to judge? "And you?"

(He's a _doctor_ , he has every _right_ to judge, excuse you.)

"Oh, really?" Peter brightens, "Me, too!"

"Oh, uh, really?" Scott's eyes trail to Peter's arm, "Because FRIDAY said otherwise."

"Oh, this," Peter winces, moving forward and sort of making a floppy motion at Bruce, "I, uh, broke my arm. Do you mind helping me fix it up or are you busy with something else or..."

"Take a seat over there," Bruce gestures at the spot where Scott is sitting and Scott takes this as his cue to bounce off ( _bounce!_ Not even get off slowly, he _bounces_ like some five-year-old!).

Scott gestures grandly for Peter to sit down, and Peter complies obediently.

"How'd you get injured, kid?" Scott asks, taking a seat in Bruce's spinny chair (Bruce's! Great, how Scott's going to bleed all over it).

"Hm, this?" Peter blushes, "It's, uh, no big deal. Fighting bad guys, you know, the works."

It's very obviously _not_ just fighting bad guys and the works, but Bruce is a bit worried that he'll hear something like "I waved to someone as Spider-man and accidentally let go of my webs while I was web-slinging" so he doesn't poke any deeper.

"I see," Scott smiles, a bit amused, and Bruce can tell that he's probably caught on as well, "You like fighting?"

Peter shrugs, "I mean, it's pretty cool, but I only really fight when I'm about to die or something so that's, uh, y'know, not cool. World ending stuff is a bit scary," he's a bit blunt about it, fairly open for someone his age, and Bruce wonders with no small amusement if that's because of him being exposed to Tony so much, "But it's fine. I'm strong, so," he grinned, "I've got an unfair advantage."

Bruce feels a smile pull at the edges of his lips, "I wouldn't know about unfair advantage," he hums, "And even if you do, it's good that you're on our side."

Peter beams, "You think so?" He asks, something akin to pride and awe in his words.

"Yeah," Bruce tilts his head to the side, "Now, you just need to stop getting injured, and then we'll talk."


	13. Chapter 13

**Trigger Warning:** Mentions of torture and murder, but not to any of the characters.

* * *

"I got you a donut," Peter says as he drops down beside MJ, legs bending as he smoothly slides into a sitting position, watching her legs dangle over the edge of the auditorium stage.

"You still owe me five dollars for last week's pizza," MJ says, amused as she takes the donut, "Shouldn't you think about repaying that debt before you get me any food?"

"Oh, I," Peter freezes.

"It's fine," MJ laughs a bit, "This is enough. Consider the debt repaid."

Peter relaxes, "I don't know," he hums, "I should still pay you back."

"It's fine," MJ lifts a shoulder, and when Peter wants to protest, she tacks on a soft, "Really."

Peter knows better than to argue. "Okay," he says instead, quiet, soft, closing his eyes as he presses his head against her shoulder, "What are you doing in here?"

"What makes you think that I need a reason?" Teasing, light. Tilted just enough to try to keep him far away from pressing the subject.

He forges onward anyway, "You're in the Aud. It's always something."

MJ curls into herself as she takes a bite of the donut, "Junko Furuta was a Japanese high school student murdered in the 90s. She was taken by four high school boys, kidnapped in broad daylight, and tortured for forty-four days until she finally died from her injuries."

Peter is silent. He grasps her free hand in his and runs his thumb against her knuckles.

MJ offers him a tentative, appreciative smile that scurries away almost as soon as its found its way to her lips. "They did unspeakable, barbaric things to her, like hanging her from the ceiling and beating her or raping her or dripping melted candle wax into her eyes..."

Peter tries not to throw up, and he can tell from the harsh, grating fury in MJ's voice that she feels the same, the way that her voice is both harsh and yet as light as a feather, ready to fly away at the barest breath from the wind.

"And over _one hundred people_ knew about it." MJ drags her hand away from Peter's and swipes it across her face. There are no tears, it's simply to centre herself. Remind herself where she is. The Aud has always been MJ's centre, with its wide stretches, the empty canvas of a stage and the seats all going up and staring down at her. "All those people _knew_ about this girl being beaten and raped and tortured to death and all that they had to do was tell _someone_ but they stayed silent to save their own skins and that's just so... so..." She shakes her head and shuts her eyes.

"That's disgusting," Peter snarls, his upper lip curling and eyes narrowing.

"But they're humans, you know?" MJ sank the heels of her palms into her eyes, "Those were people that did that. Not monsters. Humans."

Peter stares at her, and then he presses a hand into the part of her back between her shoulder blades, "Yeah," he agrees quietly. Thoughtful.

"And I hate that," MJ's voice is vicious, the words ripped from her throat, "I hate that they're people and they weren't special, they weren't tortured as children or treated awfully or given terrible parents, they were just _people_ , kids that were 17 and they did something this awful to an innocent girl and they _laughed_ when she begged them to kill her and they acted like it wasn't..." Her voice cracks, "Like they were just human. They ate food and had favourite meals and drank water just like you and me and they killed her like she wasn't human. Like she wasn't the same as them. I hate it. I hate that."

Peter brings his knees up to his chest, "You think that she was?" He asks quietly, "The same as them."

MJ closes her eyes.

Peter keeps his hand against her back, "It's okay to not know."

"We're all just _human_."

"It's the choices we make, not the blood in our veins, that defines us," Peter says, echoing MJ's words from a debate a few months back.

MJ smiles a bit, almost proud, "I did say that, didn't I?"

Peter nods.

MJ sighs.

"You okay?" Peter asks.

"I don't know," MJ shrugs, "I don't want to turn out like those boys. Numb to the world and only putting myself first."

"You won't," Peter says. Confident. Assured.

MJ tucks her head onto his shoulder, "How do you know that?"

"Because you're defined by your choices. And you won't make those choices."

"Over one hundred people," MJ whispers. "Even if I don't cause the problem, I could be able to stop it. What if I take the easy way out and choose not to?"

"MJ," The word comes out like a laugh, "In all my years of knowing you, you have _never_ taken the easy way out. If you could stop something, if you thought it was unjust, you wouldn't hesitate."

"Easy for you to say," MJ huffs, a bit of the tightness in her back loosening, "You're always helping people."

"You are, too," Peter says.

"I'm not you," MJ reminds him.

"You don't have to be," Peter reminds her.

"Mm," MJ laughs, "You're pretty good at this comforting people stuff."

"Thanks," Peter's voice rings in the auditorium, the sound bouncing off walls and ringing around them in an echo.

* * *

"Is it okay to hate someone?" Peter asks May as she puts on her makeup.

"Depends," she curves the eyeliner over her eyes, "Why do you hate them?"

He fiddles with his thumbs, "MJ and I were talking earlier about this girl, Junko Furuta."

"Oh," May puts down her eyeliner, "The Murder of Junko Furuta."

"You've heard of her," Peter isn't quite sure why he's surprised.

"Caused _huge_ news in the 90's, enough that when Ben..." May swallows, "When Ben went through his detective phase, he found a Wikipedia article on her case."

"It's so wrong," Peter stares at May's hands, the curve of her fingers and the bumps of her knuckles on the backs of her hands, "When we were talking about it, and when MJ told me about the case, when I read about it on wikipedia I got so angry and when I heard that they just got twenty year sentences in jail I got so mad and I just..." he stares at his hands, "I wanted them to rot in jail forever for what they did. I hated the judge for making the call to give them a second chance because they were minors, I hated them so much and I just..."

He falls silent.

May reaches out and takes his hand in her's. "I know, sweetie," she whispered, soft and sympathetic, "I know how that feels."

"It's so wrong," Peter let go of her hand and shook his head, "I don't want to crush your hand. Sorry. I just. It made me so angry. Like it wasn't enough to take her and rape her, they also had to torture her and beat her until she begged them to kill her and even then they wouldn't, they treated her like she was less than human, they were so cruel and awful and..." his breath catches in his throat even as May moves to sit beside him on the couch.

She puts a throw pillow in his lap and he wraps his arms around it, grateful to have something that he can use his strength on.

" _They_ ask her to play a game with them, and when she won when they beat her until she's _convulsing_ and then they drop weights on her until she's crying and they _keep going and going and_ it's so wrong, people _knew_ what was happening but nobody stopped it and nobody else was convicted, just them, it's just so sick and wrong and I don't understand I hated them so much, I..."

He cuts off.

He doesn't know what to say, how he can describe the burning, sickening feeling in his chest that floods his tongue and fills his throat with disgust.

"This kind of hatred," May wraps her arm around Peter's shoulder, carding her fingers through his hair as he tucks his head onto her shoulder, "This kind of hatred comes from compassion. And that... that isn't wrong."

"But," Peter says.

"But," May agrees, "Hatred does nothing. All it does is poison yourself. It won't stop the crime from happening. It won't stop the world from being cruel. All that it will do is hurt you. Hating someone is like drinking poison and waiting for them to die."

"I don't want that," Peter buries his face in her shoulder, "I don't want to become someone like that, hateful and cruel and harsh, someone, who's so cynical of the world that they can't enjoy the flowers or beetles or blue skies. I don't want to be someone who's in so much pain that they can't dance in the rain or sing to the radio or... or... I don't want to feel like this."

"But it's hard to control how you feel," May kissed Peter's forehead, "It's okay to feel, as long as you don't let the feeling control you."

And this, this is the part where Peter makes a joke.

A quip.

Something about May sounding like a guru or a meditation weirdo.

But he can't, because something stirs in his chest that's confused and lost and angry and broken and childish and he doesn't quite understand it and isn't quite sure if he wants to.

"I feel like this is never going to go away," He murmurs into the curve of May's shoulder.

"I know," May says softly. A little broken hearted, for his sake, kindness bleeding into her voice and the way that she holds him, as though she can keep him happy with firm enough hugs. "But you can't keep this anger pent up inside. You have to decide what to do with it."

"What do I do?" Peter asks.

"That's for you to decide for yourself," May hums into his hair, "But I think that you already know. When Ben died, and you became Spider-man. When you got a building dropped on you, and you stopped Toomes from stealing dangerous weaponry."

"How do I stop this from happening again?" Peter wrapped his arms around May. They dangled around her torso, loose and limp.

"You can't," May apologized, "You can only choose to be kind. Sometimes that's the best that you can do, and you just have to learn to live with it."

Peter cries.

He cries a lot until his eyes ache and the gaping hole in his chest feels somewhat satiated, and then he lets go of May and rubs his eyes and says _thank you_ even as she thinks that _it's not enough_ but never says it because she can't teach him to say that kind of thing, she refuses to be that role model.

"I love you," she says, instead, crying into his hair.

When they're done, Peter puts on _Treasure Planet_ and they watch it half-heartedly, more content to drink in each other's presences as Jim and Silvers smile at each other.

Peter focuses on May's arms on his shoulder, on her breath in his hair, on the way that she smiles at him when she thinks that he isn't looking.

And while he focuses on her love, he notices that it's a lot harder to focus on anger.

It's hard to hate when you love someone.

And Peter's still a bit angry when he thinks of it.

He's still a bit scared when he thinks of the name _Junko Furuta_.

But it's okay.

Or, at least, he thinks as he falls asleep with his head on May's shoulder, it will be.


	14. Chapter 14

Ben, Peter reflects, is _everywhere_.

He's in the kitchen, in the nice pots and pans because Ben was the only one who could cook (and alright, fine, Peter skimped out one Christmas and just bought him some nice kitchen supplies. In Peter's defence, Ben _seemed_ happy).

He's in Peter's closet, in the sweaters and shirts and in Peter's rolled up sleeves because his clothing was far too big but they couldn't bear to throw his clothes out so they sit in Peter's closet, and sometimes, they hang over his shoulders and on him and he breathes in Ben's scent when he's feeling lonely and misses him.

Ben sits in May's voice when it cracks, he stills in the way that Peter turns to his left ever so slightly when he makes a pun, his presence bleeds everywhere and it _hurts_.

"I'd like to think that he would be proud of me," Peter tells Tony, pressing his head against Tony's shoulder and closing his eyes. May is out for the night, working overtime (because she never would say no to an extra shift, even when Tony says _I can help financially_ and May says, eyes burning, _there are people who need it more than we do_ and that isn't pride, it's kindness), and as such Peter's at Tony's.

(What Peter will not admit, what May will not admit, is that it's Ben's anniversary tomorrow, and May will spend the whole day with Peter, he knows it and she knows it but she needs this time alone, to grieve, to think, to stop and step away from her boy so that she can break just a little without worrying about him.)

"He always said _do the right thing_ , you know?" Peter gnaws on his lower lip, "I never knew my dad, and maybe... maybe this is wrong to think, but I always thought, I was grateful in some way that I didn't because Ben was the best." He laughs a bit, "I'm awful."

"No, no," Tony cards his fingers through Peter's hair, thoughtful and slow, the action deliberate and firm. "When I was young..." he cuts himself off, and then starts afresh, "You're lucky to have had your uncle. It sounds like he was an amazing man."

"He was," Peter hums, "May always said that he completed her. It was cheesy but he did."

"And now she's different?" Tony's fingers slow a little as his mind drifts.

"She's quieter," Peter notices but doesn't comment, "But you can't tell. She's better now. It was right after the funeral that you could really see it."

Tony nods, though Peter can't see him.

"Did she cry a lot?"

"All the time," Peter closes his eyes, "But she never wanted me to see. Even when she was in mourning, she was thinking about how it would affect me."

 _That kind of love_ , Peter thinks, _is priceless_.

"Amazing," Tony breathes.

"Yeah," Peter sighs, "Uncle Ben always said that he was lucky that she fell for a guy like him, and she always said that it was vice versa."

They were so in love that it hurt, sometimes, watching them and wondering if he could ever have a love like that, strong and powerful and gentle and selfless.

"I know how that feels," Tony says, expression softening a bit.

(Peter can just _tell_ that he's thinking of Pepper.)

"It's nice to be in love with someone," he reflects, "but it's a lot harder when they leave you."

"That's love for you," Tony laughs a bit, "You've summed it up pretty well, kid."

Peter purses his lips together, suddenly feeling odd, talking about Ben with Tony. They've always been something separate, a _Before_ and _After_. A defined line lay between the two. "Do you think that it was for the better that he died?" he asks quietly, "If he hadn't, I might never have become Spider-man."

Tony is silent.

Peter is suddenly aware of everything.

The hum of Tony's arc reactor buzzing against his chest, the pillow squashed under his legs, his shoulder against the couch arm and Tony's fingers in his hair.

He wonders how awfully Tony must think of him for asking such a question.

"My answer is a bit selfish," Tony finally laughs self-deprecatingly. "I'm too biased, I think."

"Everyone's biased," Peter says.

Tony chews on his lower lip, "If I could find a way to bring him back and make you happy," he says slowly, methodically, "If it could have just never have happened. If he had never died. That would be nice. You'd be happy, yeah? But I don't regret that it happened. It's selfish but I'm glad to have met you. And I'm happy to have met you."

"That's not selfish, Mr. Stark," Peter laughs, "That's one of the nicest things that you've ever said to me."

"Yeah, well," Tony goes bright red, "Don't get used to it."

They fall quickly onto other, safer, topics, to playing Mario Kart and debating which Musical was better (Tony thought _Hamilton_ , Peter rolls his eyes and says _of course you do, Mr. Stark_ as Tony squawks indignantly _what do you mean of course_ ) and Peter smiles a bit when he thinks of Tony saying _I'm happy to have met you_.

(It has been a year since Ben's death, and Peter's doing better.)

Then, of course, Peter has to think of the conversation at hand as Tony sputters and waves his hands in the air, "What do you _mean_ you think that Luigi is better than Mario? He's literally... he's literally the title character!"

"You don't _understand_ , Mr. Stark," Peter sighs, "Luigi is the best because..."

* * *

Flash brings a ukulele to school because he's a weirdo along with a black folder full of sheet music.

"Its _collateral_ ," he sighs dramatically as he sits down on the piano bench next to Peter and starts strumming. "You need to do the chords for _Pokerface_."

Peter can't help it, he lights up, smile widening and eyes brightening as he claps his hands together (he feels like an excited kid in kindergarten but he's too excited to care about how this seems from the outside), "We're doing a sing-along?"

"Ooh _yeah_ ," MJ rolls over in a bright orange spinny chair (very pointedly ignoring Flash as he looks up at the ceiling and mutters to himself _don't even ask, Thompson, you_ know _that it's going to be some weird shit_ ), "We're killing all the eardrums today."

"You're actually a good singer," Ned sighs from where he's sitting with his back to the wall, next to the piano, "Why would you rope _me_ into this?"

"Because you've got a good voice," MJ raises an eyebrow, "Do not fight me. It is an unwise decision."

"I make my own decisions," Ned says, but he very wisely does not argue. "I don't remember most of the lyrics for this song."

"Collateral," Flash groans as he hands Ned some sheet music, "It's got the chords and lyrics on it."

"Don't be so reluctant, Thompson," MJ grins, "One would almost think that you weren't doing this willingly."

Flash strums a few chords, tuning his ukulele, and then he glares at MJ, "Because I'm not?"

MJ waves a hand carelessly, "Tosh."

Peter laughs.

"She _blackmailed_ you?" He asks.

"Shut up, dude!" Flash groaned, burying his face in his hands, "No, look, she just has something that I want, and I have to play and sing with you in order to get it, okay?"

"Um," Peter exchanges looks with Ned, as Ned sighs, "Look, dude, I hate to break it to you, but that sounds a _lot_ like blackmail."

Peter nods in agreement with Ned.

"It's not," Flash plays with his hoodie strings. He's steadily becoming more and more flustered, "Let's just play, okay?"

"No, man, what's she got on you?"

"I'm not blackmailing him, guys," MJ decides that she's had enough of her amusement watching them flounder like this, and taps her fingers on the arm of her spinny chair. "It's obviously the other side of the corruption scale, I'm bribing him."

"With _what_?" Peter wheels onto Flash.

Flash idly plays Riptide, moving in slower movements than the original song sounds like, "She, uh, has the Phillip Keveren series for the Beatles arrangements."

"Omi _gosh_ ," Ned's face lights up in very obvious, not-at-all-subtle delight. "You like the Beatles?"

"Yes. _No_. Ugh. I knew that this was going to happen."

"You are now being absorbed into this friend group," Ned said, serious and yet bright-eyed, "This is a thing. You like the Beatles, I can forgive every jerk thing that you've ever done up until now."

" _Dude_ ," Flash groaned, "I have avoided talking about the Beatles for this long, I can continue without it."

"But do you _want to_?" Peter joins in the fray, pressing his shoulder up against Flash's.

" _Song_ ," Flash squeaks.

"He knows how to play _Here Comes the Sun_ on the piano," MJ calls out, just to cause a bit of extra chaos.

Flash dodges any requests by strumming the beginning chords of _Pokerface_ and starts singing loudly (and weirdly in tune).

MJ sighs dramatically, but she pokes Ned and they join in, leaving Peter to scramble to play the chords on the piano (he knows them by heart, but it's odd, playing with his friends' voices in the background, and it's not fair _why is everyone so good at singing except for him_ ).

Someway through _Pokerface_ , a girl walks up to them and asks if they take requests and they end up playing _Neptune_ by Sleeping at Last and it continues until Peter is too tired to sightread and Flash's fingers have slowed and the bell rings.

"Perfect timing!" MJ beams as Flash gathers his papers, "See you guys next week!"

"Wait, but the sheet music..."

"Soon," MJ grins in a way that says that Flash isn't receiving it anytime soon.

(Somehow, Peter thinks, looking at the pleased little smile sitting on Flash's lips, he doesn't seem to mind that much.)


	15. Chapter 15

"I'm doing fine," Peter says as he throws his ball into the air. Up. Down. It curves elegantly, dropping back into his waiting fingers with barely a sound. "Great, really. I think. I don't know," he frowns at his hands, "It's kind of weird."

"Weird in the sense that you aren't used to being happy?" His therapist raises an eyebrow, amused, "Or weird as in something else?"

"Weird like," Peter can't quite gather the words in the correct fashion. They elude him, slipping out of grasp like water through his fingers. "I don't know. It's weird, I guess. Like I'm waiting for something to happen, but nothing's happening?"

"Something bad?" His therapist runs his fingers over the cardboard nameplate on his desk. _Fengchi_ in scrawled, messy handwriting trying to look neat.

"Yes. No. Maybe," Peter chews on his lower lip, "I don't know. It makes my chest feel weird."

"Like it's buzzing?"

"Yes!" Peter nods, "Exactly!"

"That's anxiety."

Peter's face falls, "No, no, not that," he frowns, "I'm doing fine."

"You think that something bad is going to happen even though you intellectually know that it's not going to happen. Your brain comes up with worst-case scenarios. You're on the edge. You have trouble sleeping because you're afraid that you'll miss something, even though you know that you've done everything that you needed to do."

Peter throws the ball in the air again, watching it roll through the air. He can watch it slowly, senses sharp and fingers uncurling just as the ball comes down, landing with a slight _thud_ this time. "It's not anxiety," he says.

"But the description is accurate?" Fengchi's lips twitch up a bit. Amused, but concerned.

 _It's not anxiety_ , Peter repeats in his head.

It's not.

"I'm not like Mr. Stark," he says, throwing the ball from hand to hand, "And I'm okay with doing things like throwing out my garbage."

Fengchi laughs a bit, "Not all anxiety is the same."

Peter makes a rumbly, disagreeing sound in the back of his throat but he understands. "Okay. But I'm not that bad, right?"

"How badly is it affecting you?" Fengchi asks.

Peter shrugs.

He throws the ball up.

It comes down.

(It always comes down.)

"It's not that bad," Peter says.

Up.

Down.

He can feel his brain detaching.

"I think that I'm starting to disassociate," he says, because hey, honestly. Very valuable when you're talking to a therapist.

"Do you need something to ground you?" Fengchi asks.

Peter tightens his grip on the ball and shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. The ball breaks. "Yes."

Fengchi holds out a hand, and Peter shakes his head again.

"Not you," he says. He feels like his head is stuck in a bubble or a vat, "I can break you."

"You won't," Fengchi says confidently and holds out his hand.

Peter stares at the hand. "This is ridiculous," he mumbles.

"Just a bit," Fengchi shrugs. "I'm the one who has Spider-man in my office."

"I _am_ Spider-man," Peter frowns.

"Are you still doing that Instagram thing?" Fengchi rummages through his desk, one of his hands still lying on the desk, open for Peter to take. "I got some origami flowers from someone yesterday. Very pretty."

"Yeah, just let me," Peter fumbles with his phone, pulling it from his pocket and opening it. "Yeah, okay."

"Better?" Fengchi asks.

"Not really," Peter holds up the phone as Fengchi puts a handful of bright blue and yellow origami roses on the desk, "But they look lovely. Thank you."

"Just doing my job," Fengchi laughs a bit, "I'm doing the bare minimum, really."

"No, you're not, it's," Peter snaps a photo, "It's great."

Fengchi leans back, running a finger along the edge of his desk, "You're easy to please," he hums, "That's not a bad thing or anything. Makes my job easier, really." At Peter's frown, he tacks on, "Not saying that I'm not a bad therapist, either. If I thought that I wasn't good at this job, I wouldn't be doing it. You can't get by in this business with a low self-esteem, that's just ridiculous. I'm just saying, not everyone can have their day made by origami flowers."

"They're very well made," Peter rubs the back of his neck.

"I know," Fengchi smiled, "Do you want to learn how to make them?"

Peter lit up, "You can teach me?"

"No," Another laugh, a bit louder this time. "I can't fold paper to save my life. One of my clients, the one that made this, she's hosting a thing where she teaches people with anxiety to make paper flowers," he taps the desk, once, twice, "You should go. I'll get you a flier next week, yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter picks up a flower, "Can I take a picture of you?"

"To put on Instagram?" Fengchi smiles a bit, "Like one of the youths of today?"

Peter groans, " _Please_ don't say stuff like that. I get enough of that from Mr. Stark."

"Tony's just trolling," Fengchi waved a hand dismissively.

"You are, too!" Peter protested.

"I'm old."

" _Dude_ ," Peter crossed his arms over his chest, "You're, like, 30."

"32."

Peter raised an eyebrow.

Fengchi conceded, "Okay, fine. So, what would you like to talk about?"

Peter played with the edges of his phone hesitantly, "Can we talk about how to help people who have panic attacks?"

Fengchi drew his eyebrows together, "For Tony's sake?"

"I know that this is supposed to be about me and all, but," Peter stared at the broken bits of his ball on the ground, "I think that it would make me feel a bit better."

"Yeah, okay," Fengchi crossed his arms together, "This can also apply to yourself. So there are different types of panic attacks, Tony's typically are at the more... how should I say, stereotypical end of the spectrum. Contrary to popular belief, focus on your breathing isn't helpful. It's better to have specifics like..."

* * *

May is still sitting in the kitchen when Peter climbs in through the window a little before 11.

"You should be asleep," Peter says, frowning as he shuts the window and closes the curtain.

"Yeah, well," May shrugs as she gestures to the platter of watermelon that she has set on the dining table, "I was sweating too much to fall asleep. I'm trying to save money on the AC, so we're eating watermelon instead."

"We're not supposed to eat this soon before bedtime," Peter smiles a bit, amused.

May raises an eyebrow, "Do I look like I care?"

Peter concedes with a laugh as he sits down and takes a fork, jabbing one of the squares of watermelon as he asks, "What are you doing up so late?"

"Waiting for my idiot kid to get back so that I could confirm with my own two eyes that he didn't die," May sighed.

"You should go to sleep," Peter sighed.

"Where's the fun in that?" May looked ready to pass out.

"Health benefits and a longer lifespan," Peter popped another square of watermelon into his mouth. "This is cold."

"Of course, it's cold," May snorted, "It's 25 degrees out there, I'm _dying_ of heat. To make things worse, we live on an upper floor of an _apartment_... and of _course_ , heat rises because freaking science never works in my favour... and I'm ready to fall asleep, which I can't do if my clothes keep sticking to me like this."

Peter opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Point," he conceded.

"It's 11 at night and it's 25 C out there," May shoved three watermelon pieces in her mouth, " _Let me have this_."

Peter ducked his head down to (poorly) hide a small smile. "You're really sleep deprived, aren't you." It isn't quite a question, but it could pass for one.

"You know it," May runs her fingers through her hair and presses her fingers to her lips in an attempt to hold back a yawn. (It doesn't work, and it would be a valiant effort but for the fact that she looks ready to faceplant into the watermelon.) "It's okay. Soon I'll get to the point where I'm so tired that I'm awake and none of this will matter."

"That's not healthy," Peter chides.

"I know," May rests her cheek on a hand, "I'm a terrible influence, really."

"We should get you to sleep," Peter says.

"Or we could watch _The Weekenders,_ " May suggests.

Peter scrunches his nose, and concedes with a dip of his head, "Or we could do that," he agrees, half amused, mostly fond and eager. "You know, we nearly lasted a month without rewatching it."

"Ridiculous," May scoffs, "We've gone too long without the masterpiece that's _The Weekenders_."

" _Such_ a bad influence," Peter repeats, though he's grinning.

"We even have snacks!" May gestures.

Peter kisses her on the cheek, "To the couch?"

May pumps a fist in the air, "To the couch!"

And if they fall asleep with the watermelon full around halfway through the first season, the dim glow of the TV shut as Peter watches May flopped over the arm of the couch before falling asleep himself. And if they wake up drenched in sweat in burning heat with the sun through the window and the light tracing the TV, little dust flying in the air like fairy dust as sweat trickles down their foreheads because of their body heat.

And if they're sticky and gross, but they don't regret it because being with each other, together, is enough, then that's nobody's business but their own.

("I fell asleep in my _suit_ ," Peter groans.

May shakes her head, "How is that thing not hot?"

Peter frowns at it, mystified, "I'll have to ask Mr. Stark."

But that has to wait because they need to finish that Weekenders Marathon first.)


	16. Chapter 16

"It's raining," May says when Peter rolls off the edge of his bed. She smiles at him, fondly, and leans down to kiss him on the forehead, "It's quite lovely outside."

Thunder roars through the air but there's no lightning as the rain pours down. Each raindrop is thick enough that a single drop could fill a shot glass and fast enough that wherever you walk, there will an inch of rain soaking up your sneakers. It falls like it's painting a picture, each drop sending up a splash of water when it hits the river that the streets are becoming.

"Looks amazing," Peter yawns as he runs his fingers through his hair, picking off all the stray little hairs that fall out and into the cracks between his fingers, "Don't open my window, I haven't changed yet."

"You're going to change?" May raises her eyebrows as she turns to look out the window, "It's Saturday, you know."

"Great," Peter stretches, arms up and bones popping as his black and white _Cloak & Dagger _t-shirt lifts up to show the band of his bright red Mickey Mouse shorts. "We're dancing?"

A wide grin consumes May's face, "You say that like it's a question."

A laugh bubbles it's way out of Peter's lips as he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, "I'm _sleepy_ , though."

"All the better," May holds out a hand to Peter, who accepts it and twirls up into May's torso. They hold the dramatic pose for a moment before breaking away from each other, laughing. "You planning on changing?"

"Why bother?" Peter bites back a yawn as he pads to the window and squints outside. "Wow, it's raining _hard_."

"Mm-hm," May slinks up behind Peter and wraps her arms around him, fingers brushing against his elbows as she puts her weight onto his shoulders, "You feel like a waltz today?"

"Whatever you want, milady," Peter turns around to face her and when she steps back, offers her a low bow, arms sweeping wide and full. "Sneakers?"

May raises an eyebrow, "Are you wearing socks?"

"Never," Peter laughs.

"Then I'll allow it," May says with a gracious nod.

"Thanks, May," Peter pops up on his tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. "We bringing a radio?"

A bright, wild grin lights May's lips, "I was thinking of getting fancy," she says instead of agreeing like she usually does, and holds up a Stark Phone.

"No _way_ ," Peter gasps, "Did Mr. Stark sneak you the new R&D prototype with a speaker?"

"I found it beneath the cacti," May sighs, half exasperated, mostly fond. Despite her protests at first, May has gotten mostly numb to Tony's expensive little gifts being "left" around the house and when she goes to return it, Tony conveniently seems to have outgrown it. (Or so he claims, and May has gotten sick of arguing with him every other week.)

"Songs?" Peter pops over May's arm to peek at it.

"Musicals galore and those trashy pop artists," May laughs, "At least there's Ariana Grande."

Peter scrunches up his nose at her, "You sound like MJ," he sighs.

"MJ likes Ariana Grande?" May blinks, surprised.

" _No_ ," Peter drags out the word on his tongue, " _Trashy pop artists_ , as though you're too pretentious to it."

May laughs, "As if. It's not my fault that my taste in music is awful, the least I can do is be self-deprecating about it."

The Ultimate Truth about May: She likes _everything_.

(She raised Peter, and Peter didn't become the sunshine child of the year without having an older, adult figure that also won sunshine adult of the year. May, unfortunately, was runner-up, as Thor ended up winning first place. "He's too epic!" Peter had protested. "He wields a badass hammer and _everything_!" Tony had merely raised an eyebrow, and pointed to where Thor was excitedly talking about the biology of _grass_ with Jane.)

They race down the stairs in a flurry of stumbles, laughter, and very near deaths (Peter nearly tumbles down the last flight but ends up flipping himself onto the railing and smoothly sliding down. May, taking two steps at a time down, sighs at him and mutters under her breath _wish I could do that_ ).

When they run out, the rain's only gotten harder, and within seconds they're soaked to the bone.

"May I?" Peter asks, bowing to May. He squints at her through dripping bangs, though nothing can hold back the bright smile on his lips.

"You may," May takes his hand and they dance, a smooth waltz with May leading and then forcing Peter to take the lead when she feels like twirling, the two of them spinning in the rain and laughing when they come across spots where the water comes down the roof in steady, inch long streams.

May cups one of the falling streams of water (it doesn't quite drip, there's no air, it's more like a miniature waterfall) in her hands and flings it at Peter.

It doesn't really do anything since he already looks like he crawled out of a pool, but he shrieks and splashes her in retaliation anyway.

"I'm _singing_ in the rain," May belts out, the music was forgotten as they fall back to the familiar song.

"Just _singing_ in the rain," Peter yells back.

"What a glorious _feeling_ , I'm happy again," and the crowd gathers, people peeking out their windows, taking pictures and laughing, some kids looking wistfully while parents watch and others already bouncing out into the streets, accustomed to May and Peter's tradition.

There's the familiar flash of a camera, and Peter yells, "Send it to me!" as the girl who took it turns red and offers him a thumbs up. It'll be on Instagram soon, his or hers, that image of him in his pyjamas and May in her dress, dancing like fools. (But fools who know how to enjoy life, he thinks proudly.)

"Will you ever _not_ do this?" Their landlady asks as she twirls out, her bright red skirt heavy with rain as water spills out with the skirt.

"Never!" May laughs as Peter picks her up by the waist and spins her around. "What do you think, Peter?"

"Never!" He agrees as he sets her down and holds her hand, twirling out and then back in to press his back against her torso. "This is the way to live life!"

Dripping rain into his eyes, their only light the streetlamps and the light flooding from open windows as the people in nearby apartments watch them, dancing and twirling and laughing themselves sick, Peter really cannot imagine a life without dancing in the rain.

* * *

"Found you," Ned smiles as he sits down next to Peter in the bathroom. He pulls out his lunch and starts eating it, even as Peter presses his face into his knees and tries to hold his breath. "Hey, man, MJ said to stop holding your breath. You need to breathe, and that's not going to help get oxygen to your brain."

"Okay," Peter mumbles.

Back to hyperventilating it is.

"Man," Ned starts eating a sandwich, "And here I was thinking that everyone in the school had heard about the glitter incident. Guess not, eh?"

 _Apparently_ , Peter thinks, though he can't quite move his mouth to say it.

It wasn't much of a big deal, some ninth graders had decided to prank some people by putting buckets of dust (that they had swept up from the school floor, the custodian had been impressed and thankful) on top of doors all around the school (the custodian became far less impressed and thankful). Peter hadn't been one of the unfortunate souls caught up in it, but he had been walking behind Flash, who _was_ one of the unfortunate souls, and he had been there when the dust-covered Flash and Flash stumbled behind the door (and out of sight), screaming.

Peter had panicked, Flash had panicked, everyone had panicked, it was a Bad Situation.

(The ninth graders were now serving detention for the next month and realizing exactly why that kind of thing was no good. Yeesh, you'd think that after half the world turning to dust, pranks like those would stop.)

Peter had disappeared and the class had dissolved into general chaos as at least one student (or teacher, depending) went to clean themselves off and the remaining students either chose to goof off or be kind and help to clean the ground.

Ned, after whispering a few words to their teacher (who had thankfully been around for the Glitter Incident and thus realized what was up with Peter), had gone off to find Peter and decided that lunch was the way to go pertaining to calming his own scattered nerves (sure, he hadn't gotten PTSD, but it was still unsettling, watching the dust settle all over Flash and the other students. He had been on a school bus when people turned to dust, and it wasn't pleasant, seeing it like that again).

"Yeah, well," Peter laughed a little, though the effect came off somewhat awkward considering that he was still in panic attack mode, "Maybe I'm not dramatic enough."

"Next time you should panic in a Batman costume," Ned suggested.

"Are you... are you kidding?" Peter croaked, "I'm going all out, baby. Full..." His breath hitched, "Full costume, I'm going to be _Spoiler_. Bright purple cape, ninja mask, maybe even a blond wig. I'll get May to do my makeup."

"Panic! At the Cosplay!" Ned struck a dramatic pose, which, admittedly, was awkward when there were two teenage boys jammed together in a bathroom stall next to a toilet and Ned's lunch box.

"You can by Robin," Peter grinned, "show off those legs of yours."

"Does this make me Dick Grayson?" Ned groaned, "Is MJ going to be Batman?"

Peter hummed a bit and fumbled as he pulled out his phone, "I'll, uh, text her."

His fingers were shaking too much, though, and he dropped his phone. He stared at it blankly, and Ned went to pick it up. "Same password as last week?"

"I changed the 1 to a 0," Peter wrapped his arms around his shins.

Ned typed out the password and texted MJ, who promptly answered with, _I'm Batman_ with a little emoji. "She agrees," Ned smiled as he showed it to Peter.

Peter offered a shaky smile when he noticed the emoji, "Figures."

The phone buzzed again, and MJ said, _Kidding. I'm Tim Drake, I can't fight to save my life._

"Tim Drake can fight!" Peter exclaimed, offended, "He defeated Ra's al Ghul!"

Ned typed out the response.

 _With help from the Teen Titans AND the entire Bat-family_ , was MJ's reply, _he literally defeated him by collecting his inheritance. Rich kid with more brains than brawn? Totally me._

"She even lives on coffee," Ned mused thoughtfully.

It was semi-official. MJ was Tim Drake. (It would become 100% official as _soon_ as the title had been agreed upon for longer than a month, which sounded like a long time, but knowing how wishy-washy their trio was, was honestly needed.)

"You sure that you want to stay Dick Grayson?" Peter offered Ned a crooked, pale smile, "Last offer."

"Ugh, _no_ ," Ned scrunched up his nose, "Have you _seen_ his sense of style? The kid went out in _underwear_ to fight men with _guns_. Ugh. And his original Nightwing outfit...?"

Peter shuddered at the thought (or maybe that was just the leftover panic making him shake), "Please don't remind me."

"Fashion _disaster_ ," Ned said as dramatically as he could manage to. "Can't _I_ be Stephanie?"

" _Fine_ ," Peter conceded as dramatically as he could manage (which, being squished between the toilet and the stall wall, wasn't much), "I guess that I'll be the Batcow."

"Whoa, dude, talk about going from a 0 to a 100 real quick," Ned laughed, "Why don't _you_ become Dick? You're agile, you'll be in the Second wave of Avengers like how Dick became the second Batman, but you're still like, one of the classic heroes, and you've got a common name."

"Dick may have been a common name back when the Detective Comics were written, but it sure isn't now," Peter scrunched up his nose, "Besides, Dick's all flirty. And he's got a thing for redheads. I've never liked a redhead in my life."

"True, true," Ned sighed, "You're too into MJ for that."

" _Dude_!" Peter groaned, "I don't like MJ!"

"Maybe MJ should be Babs," Ned mused, "...wait a sec."

They exchanged wide-eyed glances, " _You're_ Oracle!" Peter gasped.

" _Duh_!" Ned slapped his forehead, "Omigosh, am _I_ your love interest?"

"This is a very progressive superhero movie if you're my love interest," Peter scrunched up his nose, "But you're like my brother. I think that we'd be committing incest if we dated."

"So you can't be Dick," Ned slumped, "Although if you were Dick, Mr. Stark would be Batman."

"Omigosh," Peter choked, laughing, "No way _he'd_ be Batman."

"He's cool enough to be," Ned mused.

"And he _is_ pretty emotionally suppressed..." Peter mused.

"He's _basically_ your second dad after Ben..." Ned's eyes widened.

"I'm _Robin?"_ Peter squeaked.

"Dick Grayson Robin, though, not Damian Robin," Ned clarified.

Peter buried his face in his hands, "I'm a _sidekick_!?"

"Nooo..." Ned patted Peter's knee, "Look, man, I'm not exactly in a wheelchair, this stuff doesn't have to be exact."

Peter sighed, "I can't believe that Mr. Stark was Batman all along."

"I can't either," Ned sighed.

(The next time that Ned saw Tony Stark, he stuck two fingers beside his head at Peter, who, facing Tony, had to try not to choke.)

(Peter totally choked.)


	17. Chapter 17

Peter sleeps and he wakes the fading wisps of a dream.

Blood on his fingers.

Stares on his face.

Ben, beneath him, as he desperately screams _someone help_ and then the mugger, beneath him, bleeding out as Peter watches and laughs ( _it's not true it never happened Peter had webbed him up and taken him to the police he's safe he's fine Peter KNOWS but he doesn't know_ ) and when he wakes there's the laugh on his lips and vomit in his throat.

The vomit leaves first, Peter doubling over the side of his bed just in time to stick his face into the trash can and he can dimly hear the door click open and May watches him with those worried eyes that she always makes when Peter gets injured.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, weaving through his floor ( _things all over his floor, that's not good, he can't let his room get messy, May doesn't need more work_ ) to his bed.

"I'm not sick," Peter gasps out as May sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing a warm hand on his back.

"Mm-hm," May makes a vague noise of disagreement, "And that's obviously why there's vomit in your trash can. Because you are the epitome of good health." She levels him a flat stare might make him laugh on a good day.

"I had..." Peter wants to curl up. He had thought that he was over this kind of stuff, "I had a bad dream, s'all."

"A bad dream," May echoes, and she pushes a stray piece of hair from Peter's forehead, where it's stuck with sweat. "You want to stay up a bit? Or at least, someone to stay with you while you try to fall asleep?"

"No, I," Peter sits up, "You need to go to sleep. It's late."

May runs a hand through Peter's hair, fingertips flat against his scalp, "And let you have all the fun?" Her voice turns to light, teasing.

"I don't want to talk about the dream," Peter mumbles as he gets off of his bed. He toes a lego piece, and gingerly steps around it. He had accidentally knocked over his Lego BB8 getting into bed last night and its pieces were still scattered all around the room.

"That's valid," May hums from her spot still on the bed, "You going to leave the room just to avoid me?"

Her voice stays light.

Peter laughs, a little. He can't help it. It escapes too fast, bubbling out of his lips.

"No," Equally light. "I'm getting some water."

"Wise decision," May stands up and stretches. Fingers extending and arms up. Somehow, she manages to effortlessly do so without knocking anything over or stepping on any of the legos on the floor. Totally unfair. Why didn't Peter get _her_ graceful genes? "Mind if I come with?"

Peter twists the hem of his shirt, "No," he says. Flinches when he realizes what a huge tell that is, playing with his shirt like that.

May offers him a look that means _I know what you're doing_ but says nothing. He's not quite sure why she stays silent, but Peter is grateful for it all the same.

"So, I was trying to work on my book today..." May frowns at Peter when he leans in closer, " _No_ , you can't read it yet. I'm only 5 pages in!"

"That's okay," Peter said eagerly.

" _No_ ," May pushed Peter's face away, a light laugh bubbling it's way past her lips, "Tea?"

"I already brushed my teeth," Peter sighed.

" _Ice_ _cream_?" May wiggled her eyebrows.

Peter laughed and lightly shoved May's chest, "Stop tempting me!"

"Never!" May shoved him back, "Ice cream! Ice cream!"

" _Ugh_ ," Peter groaned, flopping bonelessly over May's shoulder, pressing his forehead into the crook of her neck, "If I talk to you about my dream, will you stop talking about ice cream?"

"How about this," May took Peter's hand, pulled back, and twirled him around, "You talk, we eat ice cream, it's a grand old time."

"I don't want to talk, May," Peter repeats, pulling away.

May watches him quietly and then says, "Okay. Coco's on Netflix, we'll watch that first, yeah?"

Peter shakes his head, "I don't want to. Not..." _Blood on his hands_ , "Not yet."

May takes his hand. Holds it in her's. "Water?" She asks softly. Her own little, almost apology.

Peter pours his water and drinks it.

"I feel better now," he says and shuffles off to his room.

(It doesn't make him feel any better, but he can pretend, especially when May is watching him with those concerned eyes.)

When he opens his door, May calls out, "I love you," and Peter says it back, _I love you_. "I love you," May repeats, "But I'm not made of glass."

Peter swallows. "I never said that," he says.

"I know," May says.

Simple.

Soft.

Peter feels the guilt pile up, and then he says, "Can we... can we talk in my room?"

"We don't have to," Gently. "Don't let me pressure you into it." Kind.

"I, I need to," Peter's hands are shaking now, and he glances into his room, "Please, May."

It's the _please_ that gets to her. He sees it in her eyes, in the twitch of her fingers, the hitch of her shoulders, the way that May moves and breathes radiates concern. "You okay, Pete?" She asks. Slips. She hasn't called him Pete, not in a long time, not since Ben... he knows it, and she knows it, too. By the way that her mouth snaps shut and her eyes widen and her forehead creases.

"I, Batman," Peter drags her into his room and shuts his door and glances at his window, _closed, curtains down_ , and they sit down and Peter says, "I'm Spider-man."

"Yes," A small, almost smile.

"In Batman, there's the Joker, right?"

The smile falls. "Yes."

"And he, whenever he kills someone, he laughs, yeah?"

"Yes."

May knows.

May knows all this.

She's the one who introduced him to Batman.

But she listens anyway, attentive and patient.

"The mugger, the one that killed Uncle Ben, I dreamed that I killed him and he was bleeding and dying like Ben and I didn't... I didn't help him," Peter presses his face into May's shoulder, the curve of his nose against her collarbone, "I just laughed. Just stood over him and... and laughed. Like the Joker."

He realizes how stupid he sounds.

How dumb.

It was a dream, right?

But his nerves are shot, and Peter's hands shake against May's back, nonetheless.

"But you didn't," May murmurs into Peter's hair, "You didn't kill him. You spared him. You took him to the police station, with barely a scratch on him."

Peter shivers, " _Barely_ a scratch."

"That's right," May puts a hand on the back of Peter's head, fingers light on his hair, "You did good, Peter."

"I... I laughed," Peter whispers.

"You didn't," May whispers, "It was a dream."

"It was my brain that thought of it," Peter chokes, "If I could think of something like that. If I could _do_ something like that..."

He thinks of wishing that Junko Furuta's murderers would rot and thinks of wondering, _is the death penalty always bad no matter what_ and _maybe some people can't be redeemed_ and he hates himself, despises himself for even thinking it.

"You are defined by who you choose to be," May reminds him tenderly.

"But I keep thinking..."

"Do you do it?"

Peter swallows, "No."

"It's not your fault that you think things like that," May says, "What's important is that you're actively trying not to. You're actively trying to give people the benefit of the doubt. You're trying so hard to be a good person, and you're succeeding."

"I got revenge," Peter whispers, "On the mugger. For Ben. I... I thought that I became Spider-man to help people, but maybe I was lying, maybe that was a lie to trick you and myself into thinking that I was a better person than I was or maybe I was just trying to get revenge or..."

" _Peter_ ," May cuts in. Sharp, but soft, in a way that only she can speak. "You really think that you can trick yourself?"

"Maybe I'm an awful person," Peter knows that he's babbling now, that he just sounds ridiculous now, "Maybe I just want to seem like a good person or... or..."

" _Peter,_ " May's voice brokes no arguments now. No space for disagreement. "You had a building dropped on you and you went on an airplane... a _moving airplane, flying in the sky_... for the sake of the safety of others. You're a good person."

"Maybe I was, but I'm not anymore and..."

"Peter."

His breath hitches, "May."

"You are who you choose to be," May holds him just a bit closer, "You chose to sacrifice yourself for others to be happy and you called it your duty. I have never met anyone more selfless, kind, or good as you, do you understand that?"

Peter nods into her shoulder. "I love you, May," he croaks.

"I know," She pulls back and kisses his forehead, "You need to sleep."

"Can, can you," Peter keeps his hands on her, "Can you stay with me?"

"A sleepover?" May smiles a bit, "We can go to the living room. That's where we usually have them."

"I want..." Peter chokes the words out through the lump in his throat, "I want to stay here, if that's okay."

May's expression softens, and she runs a thumb against the line of his cheek, "Of course it's okay," she says softly.

Peter smiles, relieved.

In the morning, when they wake, he remembers why he doesn't typically sleep in the same bed as May. She is the _queen_ of blanket hoggers.

"Give it back!" Peter exclaims.

"Never!" May holds it tightly against her chest, "It's mine now! Mine!"

Peter pounces, tickling her, and she surrenders through laughter.

"Cheater!" May shouts, leaping forwards to tickle Peter, who hits her with a pillow in self-defense.

"Thief!" He shouts back.

She smashes him with a pillow.

He smashes her back.

(If someone like May loves him, Peter thinks, maybe he's not so bad of a person after all.)


	18. Chapter 18

"Are you _sure_ ," May asks for the millionth time as Peter finishes bobby pinning the monster of a crown braid on her head.

He shoves in a few bobby pins with pearls on the tips in the front and examines her in the mirror, "Yeah, you're right, the pearl-tipped bobby pins are a _bit_ over-the-top. We don't want him to think that you're desperate, after all."

" _Not_ my point," May glares at Peter's reflection in the mirror as he begins to pull out the pearl-tipped bobby pins.

"Now that I think about it, you're right," Peter sighs, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, "The entire _crown_ _braid_ is a bit over-the-top. The entire hairstyle screams _effort_ , which is awesome, but if he turns out to be a jerk, then it's not the best idea."

May crosses her arms over her chest, " _Not_ what I'm trying to say here."

"Oh, I know what you're trying to say," Peter examines her reflection in the mirror and, frowning, undoes all of his hard work, scattering the something billion bobby pins on the desk in front of the mirror. "I'm just trying very, very hard to ignore it."

"Tony's rubbing off on you," May sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"I know," Peter brightened, "It's great."

May scrunched up her nose, "It's really not..." she muttered under her breath.

"Mr. Stark doesn't deserve this hate," Peter pouted.

"When are you going to call him Tony?"

"I've called him 'Tony' before!"

"...The dumpling incident doesn't count."

" _I've called him 'Tony' before!_ " Peter repeated a high pitched squeak, a fact that makes him sound more embarrassed than anything else.

"Yeah, yeah, sure you did," May bites back a smile, "You _positive_ that you're alright with me going on a date?"

"It's _fine_ , May!" Peter throws up his hands, "You've only asked me a _million_ times and I've only told you _million_ times! It's fine! Tons of kids whose parents divorce remarry and they're perfectly fine!"

"This wasn't a divorce, though, Peter," May says, and she wraps her hands around one of Peter's.

Peter's breath catches for a moment, and then he frowns and shakes a hand in front of her nose, "Ooh _no_ ," he scowls at her, "Oh no, you're not pulling the Ben card on me. You like this guy, yes?"

May looks guilty as she dips her head to the side and says, "Yes."

"You have been friends with this guy for two months now, yes?"

May pulls on an earlobe, "You know, I knew Ben for two years before we started dating..."

"This isn't about Ben, this is about you."

May whistles, " _Harsh_."

" _Honest_ ," Peter has the dignity to cross his arms over his chest, "If you don't want to go out with this guy, that's fine. But if you're holding yourself back from being happy for the sake of your fifteen-year-old kid, I need you to remember that there's a difference between a twelve-year-old being angsty and a fifteen-year-old who seriously just needs you to get over yourself."

May smiles a bit fondly, "I remember your angsty stage. You blasted _Ariana Grande_ and called yourself a rebel."

Peter turns bright red, "I wasn't..."

"If I recall correctly, you spent a lot of time in the library reading _Henry David Thoreau_..."

Peter covers his face in his hands, scandalized, " _May_!"

"Ah, yes, how could I forget, you also read _The Alchemist_ because you needed to discuss your existential crisis..."

"Please stop," Peter whispered from behind his hands.

May offered him a wicked smile, "Now, why would I do that?"

Peter blinked at her hopefully, "...because you love me?"

"Oh, sweetie," May laughs and cards her fingers through Peter's hair, "I tease you _because_ I love you."

Peter groans, but where it sits on his tongue to say _a tragedy really_ or sigh _I love you, too_ , he just kisses her on the cheek and says, "Go. Enjoy yourself."

May smiles at him, soft and warm and so utterly _May_ that he's overcome with overwhelming fondness, "And you'll be here when I come back?"

"Of course," Peter huffs, "I'll be sure to go home faster than you once I see that the date is over."

May swats him over the back of his head, "Brat."

Peter offers her a crooked grin, "And who was the one who raised me?"

May huffs dramatically, "I blame Tony."

Peter dips his head in acknowledgement but makes no verbal agreement. Instead, he moves on to another topic, "You should get going to meet your new date."

"Are you _sure_..."

"Yes!" He throws his hands in his air and sighs disapprovingly at her, "If you would stop being so hesitant, that would be _perfect_ , thanks."

May pouts at him, "I'm just trying to be a good aunt."

"Well, stop!" Peter not-so-gently guides her to the door, "Go and enjoy yourself."

May looks amused as she slips on her heels, "That's a rather forceful way to say that you love me."

"I love you," Peter waves a hand, attempting to be aggressive but coming off rather like a puppy, "Now go and fall in love or something."

"That's not..."

"Do it! Do it!" He herds her out the door, "I'll sit and eat ice cream to mourn my singleness."

"You're _fifteen_..." May's words come out a half-protest, half-laugh.

"I'm going to _mourn_ my _singleness_ and you're not allowed to stay. Leave me to my teenage angsting in peace."

"Ooh, are you going back to watching Dan and Phil on Youtube, because I wanted to watch the new..."

Peter throws his hands in the air, "You have a date!"

"Yeah, yeah, well," May kisses Peter on the cheek, "I could be _your_ date."

Peter makes a face at her, "As much as I appreciate having the best aunt in the world, you need to stop being an aunt 24/7."

"When I'm at my job..."

"I'm at school or with friends or being Spider-man!"

"Which is not being the best aunt."

"Which is allowing me to do more than just let you smother me, which _is_ being the best aunt."

"You really think I'm..."

"If you don't hurry you're going to be late to your date."

"But..."

The door shuts in May's face and she stares at it for a moment before laughing, "Love you, sweetie!"

A muffled, "Love you, too!" comes back in response.

And May goes out the door to meet her date, "Sorry," she says a bit breathlessly when he hands her a cloth rose (remembering their conversation from a while back when May noted that she disliked real flowers despite liking plants, and preferred something akin to origami), "I was talking to Peter..."

"Your nephew," He smiles at her, "I hope that one day I'd be worthy to meet him?"

May links her arm around his, "We'll see how this date goes, first," she hums. "Shall we?"

He grins. She isn't used to him in this nice tuxedo with neatly brushed hair, more used to him with nurse scrubs and a mile of bags under his eyes, "We shall."

* * *

The rain today is light.

A soft, pattering thing that falls on Tony's face softer than a feather, the consistency of the sound more akin to a distant waterfall from miles away than the boom of a thunderstorm.

He can appreciate that he thinks to himself as he sits down next to Peter on the edge of the rooftop.

"Not thinking of jumping, are you?" He hums as he glances at the kid. "I mean, it'll be fine, since I made webs to be usable in _any_ kind of weather..." and yes, that is pride in his voice because Tony may have grown as a person but he is not above knowing his worth and his _brilliance_ , "...but I thought there might have been a reason that you were on my building?"

Peter hums a bit, the bar to Tony's song ( _Neptune_ by Sleeping at Last, it's a song that suits a day like this, a bit soft and a bit slower than Tony's usual tastes allow him to listen to) in a higher alto, before he shrugs, "May's on a date and I'm trying not to spy on her."

"Ah," Tony bites back a bit of a laugh at the _trying not to_ , "How's that working out for you?"

Peter gnaws on the collar of his shirt, bright green with _I'm Always Angry_ in a graffitied purple font. A commission from that artist friend of his, MJ, to please Bruce. It mostly embarrassed Bruce, but it still makes him smile when he sees it, the reminder that Peter still thinks Hulk is cool despite seeing him in action means the world to him.

(At first, Tony thinks, before meeting Peter, it may have displeased him, but Bruce is growing to think somewhat fondly of Hulk because, for all that he despises Hulk, he can appreciate anyone that wants to save his friends.)

Peter's shirt is wet but not soaked, another difference between this feather-light rain and the typical storms.

"I _know_ that he's a great guy," Peter bursts out in a stream of words, "I _know_ , I've _seen_ him and I've _heard_ about what he talks about and he makes May happy but I've seen so many dates gone wrong in the streets and as Spider-man and I know that May can beat him up because she knows self-defense and she doesn't need me but I've seen a lot of people end up on the wrong side of the street because of a date and I know that it's safe and it's fine and it's usually teenagers with college guys or older women but it's still..."

Ah.

So this isn't a case of _jealousy_.

It's not even a case of "what if he replaces my dead uncle who inspired me to become Spider-man".

Peter is honestly terrified that May's going to get _attacked_ by this guy.

"I know, I know," Peter mumbles, "It's ridiculous. I can't be suspicious of every guy she dates, it's unreasonable. And besides, if she dated the guys that I trusted, she'd either be dating one of the Avengers or one of my _teachers_ which is the stupidest thing ever and I'm sure that once I get to know him better I'll be more assured but I'm worried about her."

Tony leans back.

Runs his fingers through his hair.

And.

He can't help it.

A laugh bubbles it's way out of his lips.

"You sound like a dad or something," Tony shakes his head. "From those sitcoms? With the gun, being all _don't touch her or else_."

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and pouts.

Tony wraps an arm over the kid's shoulders, relishing in the feel of the rain on his cheeks and dripping into his eyes, rolling off his eyelashes and tracing the curve of his nose. "Tell you what, kiddo," he says, "I'll give you a tracker drone to keep on the guy if you convince Pepper to dance in the rain with me."

Peter frowns at him, "Mrs. Potts is busy being a CEO, Mr. Stark."

"That's what she says," Tony sighed in agreement, "But she's so stressed!"

Peter takes a moment to think about it. " _You_ agree to do half the paperwork," he jabs a finger in Tony's chest, "And make her the deal, if you finish together before it stops raining, she can go with you."

Tony gives an exaggerated sigh, "Why do _I_ have to do paperwork?"

Peter mimicks Tony's sigh, "Why are _you_ trying to drag Mrs. Potts from her very important responsibilities?"

Tony wrinkles his nose at Peter, "You sound like Pepper."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Peter links his arm around Tony's, "Come on. I heard that it'll start pouring even harder tonight, so you can dance in a _storm_ if you finish in time."

Tony lights up at that, "That sounds awesome," he breathes.

"It is," Peter laughs as he opens the door from the rooftop, "Come on, Mr. Stark, I'll race you down the stairs!"

He's off like a shot and Tony follows, jumping down steps at a time as he exclaims, "No webshooters!"

"That's lame!" Peter yells but complies and settles on jumping wall to wall.

Tony would shake his head and sigh, but he's too preoccupied with trying to beat the kid in the race down the stairs. (And, hopefully, on the way, not breaking his ankle sounds swell.)


	19. Chapter 19

It's hard, Peter thinks, to love others.

Because here's the thing... there's no requirement for others to be loved. No measure, no stick, nothing to live up to, Peter simply has to choose to love them and forgive them and he'll be damned if that's not the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

He doesn't look at their measure of _good_ or _bad_ , he just chooses, picks and points and says, _I'm going to love you_. And then it's hard to let go, once you've decided to love someone like that.

"It's just... confusing," he says to May, wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them to his chest.

Peter sits on the window seat, the little hole punched in the wall in front of the window that's square and just enough for someone to sleep in if they decided to bend their knees. He presses his back to the wall, the speckled galaxy poster that Tony got him last week crinkling behind him ever so slightly, and he shifts to avoid wrinkling it.

It's a warm day, the sun filtering through the window with a sleepy, blanket warmth and outlining Peter's hair in soft white tips. The sort of day where you could laze about, time passing like molasses and yet the day gone before you've fully realized that it's even arrived.

May cards her fingers through Peter's hair from her spot perched on the ledge, freshly dried nail polish glinting in the sunlight, flashing white then back to peachy pink.

"Love typically is," she laughs, seeming amused with his dilemma, "That's why people are so enamored with it."

"Because it doesn't make sense?" Peter huffs, resting his chin on the backs of his hands. He can feel the weight of his head sitting on his knees, and decides to keep it so. "It's confusing."

"I know, sweetie," May presses a kiss to his forehead, "You'll understand someday."

Peter shakes his head, "I don't think that I _ever_ will understand love."

May laughs, a light, sweet thing that lingers in the air even after she's finished. "You'll meet the chosen one and..."

"No, it's not," Peter fumbles a bit even as he shakes his head, pursing his lips together, "I'm not talking about _romantic_ love, May. It's more than that. Like with you or Tony or MJ or Ned, that kind of love, it doesn't make sense to me. Like, I just do it. And it's a choice... I get that, love is a choice, you choose to forgive and you choose to talk things through and you choose to make it work out... but it's also so hard to stop. Which doesn't make sense. Because you choose to do it, when you stop choosing to do it, shouldn't you just stop loving like..." He snaps his fingers and offers May a helpless stare.

May mimics his snap, her's echoing through the room and bouncing off the walls before fading away like the sunlight at twilight.

"Love gets stronger, the more that you choose it," she answers quietly. "It's like growing a plant. At first, it's just a decision you make... keep it in the sun, water it when it needs to be watered," she presses the tip of a finger to the leaf of one of the succulents, and quickly pulls away, "But then, sometimes, it becomes a tree. And trees, once you've planted them... trees can take care of themselves. And it's harder to pull out the roots of a full grown tree than to..."

She wiggles her fingers and shrugs.

It isn't really something that can be put into words, but Peter finds that he understands anyway.

"How do you know what kind of plant it will be?" He asks, uncurling, head raising and shoulders rolling back and legs expanding and curving away from his chest. "If it will be there for a moment or forever?"

May shrugs, "You don't. That's the beauty of it, don't you think?"

Peter frowns, "But..."

"It's your choice," May tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, "You choose how deep it's roots can go. You're the one that chooses how long to keep loving, how much kindness to give, how many times you forgive them, how deeply you integrate them in your life."

Peter folds his hands across his stomach and closes his eyes. "How do I choose who to love?"

May is silent, and Peter would have thought that she had left it it weren't for the sounds of her breathing still right there next to him. When he cracks open his eyes, she smiles at him. "You have to choose that, too."

Peter huffs, "There are so many choices!" He waves his hands in the air, "How do I choose?"

"I think it's best to love everyone, at least a bit," May says quietly. She presses a hand to his cheek, smiling softly at him, "That's what you do, too, isn't it? That's why Spider-man exists. Because you want everyone to be happy."

"It isn't love to throw someone in jail," Peter points out.

"Isn't it?" May hums, "It depends on your motivation, doesn't it? Like if someone is about to murder someone, and you stop them and throw them in jail, isn't it better for them that they have never killed anyone? You stopped them from doing something horrible."

"I don't understand," Peter sighs.

"You don't have to," May shrugs, "You just have to be able to do it."

Peter fiddles with his fingers, curling thumb over knuckles and letting his gaze drift around his fingers. "It doesn't make sense," he huffs, and May laughs at him. "I don't get it. What is love, anyway?"

"That's an age old question," May grins at him, "You'll have to figure it out yourself."

Peter pouts at her. "You're no help," he grouses.

May kisses him on the tip of his nose, "Now, now," she says, "I can't give you all the answers. You've got to figure them out yourself."

"Is that love, too?" Peter raises an eyebrow.

May doesn't bother to think about it, offering him a confident grin and a steady, "Yes."

Peter sighs.

Love doesn't make sense at _all_.

(But he knows that what he has for May and what May has for him, that must be love. So maybe he can reverse engineer it or something? Hm, like a robot... no, wait, he's pretty sure that you can't reverse engineer love. Ugh. He's starting to sound like _Tony_ , now.)

* * *

"Hey, um," Peter asks awkwardly as he webs up the weird monster thingy that was attacking some kid. He rubs the back of his neck, his mask rubbing against his hair as he glances at the would-be victim, "I know this is weird since I'm, like, a vigilante and all..."

"Oh, no!" They protests quickly. They glance at the monster and back at Peter, "But, uh, if you could give me a sec?"

"Oh, um, please don't take pictures of the monster or anything..." Peter thinks that's the right attitude? He's unsure.

The teenager sort of smiles at Peter, "It's okay, Spider-man. I'll take it from here." They go to the monster and mutter an apology before grabbing a sword and stabbing it. The monster sort of poofs away and the teenager curls their fingers, something odd like a bubble surrounding the... gem?... that the monster turned into before it vanishes from existence. "Okay, cool," they turn back to Peter and smile. "Can we... I... take a selfie with you?"

"Um..." How is he supposed to react to this? "Yeah, sure."

"Cool," The take a few quick selfies before tucking their phone away and smiling, "Thanks for the save, Spider-man!"

"No problem," Peter rubs the back of his neck, "But I was kind of, um, hoping that you could answer a question for me? If that's not, like, too weird."

"No, no, of course not!" The teenager reaches out a hand, "I'm Stevonnie."

"Spider-man," Peter relaxes a bit as he takes their hand. "Do you, um, know what love is?"

Stevonnie blinks at him, wide eyed for a moment, before grinning, " _Do_ I! I'm made of love!" Maybe he picked a weirdo. Peter is a bit worried for a moment before Stevonnie turns red and says, "Ah, like... I'm literally made of love. That's not like a weird thing, I'm made possible because of... well..." Stevonnie rubs the back of their head before sighing, "Promise not to get freaked out?"

Peter is Concerned.

"Okay," he says, instead of voicing his very strong and logical concern.

Stevonnie nods and then... they split in two.

Like, into two people.

Two children, to be exact.

"I'm Steven," says the boy.

"Don't... don't freak out, okay?" Says the girl. She holds up two hands, "I'm Connie. This is... um... like, a power that we have."

"Oh," Peter says in a small voice. "Okay."

He is Freaking Out.

Now should probably be the point where he goes _okay, I've seen worse_ and just kind of moves on, except that is very difficult because he is kind of freaking out and holy cow, a teenager just turned into two children.

"So when we said that we were literally made of love," Steven gestures, "...yeah."

"Oh," Peter regains his courage a bit, "Like a mutation?"

Steven and the girl exchange glances, "Yeah," says the girl. "I'm Connie, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," Peter says weakly, "So, is this romantic love, or..."

"No!" Connie shouts.

"We're too young for that," Steven frowns at Peter.

Peter nods, feeling Extremely Awkward. "So friendship love."

"Yeah," Steven fidgets, "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Peter relaxes a bit, "It's perfect, actually. So, um, I wanted to know..." Should he seriously be asking two kids this question? "How do you choose properly to love someone?"

Steven and Connie fuse back (okay, he thinks he's over it now) into Stevonnie, and they fall into a cross-legged position, rubbing a hand against their chin and Stevonnie says, "Like, getting attached love? Because that takes a lot of time and effort. But, like, showing love? Everyone deserves to be shown love."

"Everyone?" Peter repeats, tilting his head to the side. "Even criminals?"

Stevonnie nods, "Especially criminals," they close their eyes, "Everyone is a person, you know? And everyone does bad things in their lives. We're all growing, learning and becoming better, so to condemn someone as not 'worthy' to be loved is a bit ridiculous, you know?"

Peter nods, "I get it. That's true. But what's the difference between loving and showing love?"

"Well..." Stevonnie draws it out, thoughtfully, tilting their head to the side, "When you love someone, you make a bond, you know? They are part of you, and you are part of them. When you have a relationship, you're not two people anymore. You're an _experience_." They offer Peter a crooked grin, "Does that make sense?"

Peter tries to think it through, "I think so," he muses.

"Great!" Stevonnie claps their hands together, "Can I, um, have your signature? I kind of need to leave. Connie has violin lessons in half an hour, you see."

"Oh, of course," Peter scribbles in pen on their baseball cap, and Stevonnie beams at him. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_!" Stevonnie grins. Then they're off, and Peter's left with a bit more understanding about love.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know, i know, the last half is weird. Feel free to just ignore it.


	20. Chapter 20

MJ finds Peter on the roof of their school. She's snuck a key from the janitor, somehow, with that special MJ way that she does things, and she knows enough, somehow, to find him on the roof (which is forbidden, but neither of them mind at this moment).

"So, you're alive," she observes dryly, head tilted to the side, hair pulled into a messy side bun. "I wasn't too sure. It's unlike you to miss Chemistry."

Peter curls into himself, "I was going to," he says quietly. "But I just..."

He trails off and shrugs, eyes lowered.

MJ huffs, the breath of air pushing up a lock of hair, curls flying up for a moment before falling back in her eyes. "You're not at the compound," she raises an eyebrow, "How bad was it?"

"Two bullets, stomach area," Peter mumbles into his knees. "But I just..." he drums the tips of his fingers on the rooftop, "I don't want to talk to anyone at the compound right now, you know? I know that I'll have to eventually, but I just..."

"I get it," MJ doesn't, not really, but she is clever enough to do something somewhere close enough to it that it doesn't matter. "Doesn't change that you've gotta go."

Peter looks away, a stubborn purse to the line of his lips, "I'm fine," he insists.

"Oh for the sake of all that's good and right," MJ groans, "Just go before Iron Man pops onto the rooftop in his suit and every super villain in town starts questioning why he came to _this school_ , specifically, and his HR department has to go through the nightmare of trying to cover it up while having no idea of what they're trying to cover up."

Peter's lips quirk up a bit at that, "That's an awfully thought out scenario."

"I'm just smart," MJ says.

Peter does not dispute that. "You thought about this before?" he asks, light, almost teasing.

"You getting shot and me having to deal with an angsty Iron Man asking me and Ned about you?" MJ snorts, "No. Nerd. I've got better things to do with my time."

Peter smiles and bumps his shoulder against hers, "Thanks," he says quietly.

MJ looks bewildered but doesn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her ask _what_. "Whatever," she mumbles, which is MJ speak for _what in the ever loving universe did I do to make you thank me_? "You in pain?"

Peter shrugs, "I dug the bullets out with my fingers, so."

"Ew," MJ wrinkles her nose.

"Yeah," Peter laughs a bit, "I nearly passed out."

MJ watches him with an intense, dark stare that bores through him and she says sharply, "Go away."

Peter presses the side of his cheek against his knees, "I know that's your way of saying that you love me or something like that," he says, "but oof. You've gotta work on your delivery."

MJ raises her eyebrows at him.

Peter sighs. "Point," and he says, "FRIDAY?" The AI in his suit must say something along the lines of "you're good to go" because Peter pats MJ on the shoulder, a crooked grin under his mask (though she can't see him, MJ can hear it in his voice, the way it raises ever so slightly), "I'm going to go, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," MJ waves a hand at him, wiggling her fingers, "Don't die."

Peter laughs at her, and he's gone, MJ left on the forbidden rooftop, feeling horribly like some sort of love interest in a superhero movie.

In order to rid herself of the feeling, she goes to the GSA meeting at lunch and sketches the classroom's layout while the students discuss LGBTQ+ in politics. If she's going to be something as lame as the love interest in a movie, at least it will be progressive.

* * *

Ned shows up at Peter's place with a new USB and decked out in the oldest yellow cardigan that Peter has ever laid eyes on.

Obviously, because he has a terrible sense of fashion and doesn't understand these things, Peter falls head over heels in love with it and demands to know where Ned got it.

"The new thrift store down by that pink burger place," Ned makes vague gestures, which is a bit odd, since that place is around five kilometers away and not in the immediate area, but Peter gets the gist anyway. "We should go sometime. Get you some new, hideous clothing."

"It's not hideous," Peter says, deeply offended. "I love it. If you don't want the cardigan, give it to me."

"Get your own clothes," Ned says, pulling away, looking horrified, "I was joking. I love it. I look like I could do that thing that Tyra Banks always talks about, when I'm in this outfit. It makes me sexy. Don't you dare touch it."

"It's not sexy, it's _soft_ ," Peter rolls his eyes, "In that fond, endearing way that you make people when you hold their hands or slow dance with them."

Ned wrinkles his nose, "We are not going there with _clothing_. This conversation is taking a romantic turn and I am not sure I like comparing my clothes to romantic partners."

Peter rolls his eyes, "I hold your hand and slow dance with May all the time."

"Point," Ned concedes, "Sorry. My hormones must be acting up. Being a teenager is terrible, I say the stupidest things."

"Apology accepted," Peter laughs, lips stretched wide and eyes lighting up and expression soft. "New USB? It's bright orange."

"Oh, yeah," Ned holds it up and grins at Peter, eyes bright, "It's from my orthodontist, actually. They were giving away free USBs for some reason, and, hey," he shrugs, "I'm not going to say no to free stuff. Even if my orthodontist has literally no reason to give away free USBs..." he frowns a bit, but shakes his head. "Got some cool new songs!"

"Awesome," Peter and Ned make their way to the living room, "Jeremy Messersmith?"

"Late Stage Capitalism," Ned and Peter fist bump and Ned clips the USB down onto the table, "But I got a few Billie Eilish songs on there, too. Rachel Zegler has _two_ Kerrigan and Lowdermilk covers, so those, and then it's just the Dodie Clark cover of Good Morning from Singing in the Rain."

"I love you," Peter flops down on the couch and Ned follows suit, "Are we listening to them right now?"

"I want to see your reaction," Ned nudges Peter, and Peter stands up, laughing.

"I'll be right back!" He makes his way to his room and quickly returns with his laptop in tow. "Alright. Music time?"

Ned nods back, "Music time."

They play the songs, and by the time they reach _Monday, You're Not So Bad_ , Peter has grabbed the remote control to act as his microphone as he serenades Ned.

Ned, not one to be easily flustered, gives it as good as he gets it, hamming it up by grabbing his own microphone, a nearby rolled up magazine, and trying to seduce Peter with his, admittedly awful, singing voice.

They laugh and dance around and lip sync into their faux microphones and that moment, that grain in the sand of time, is eternal.

* * *

"You should be asleep," Tony notes, pressing a cup of hot chocolate into Peter's fingers.

He had been looking for coffee, but Peter had hidden it all somewhere (and Tony would have looked for it had it not been for the reminder that he needed to be healthy and not encourage his coffee addiction... okay, fine, that and the fact that he hadn't found it after over half an hour of searching was enough to wear a guy out) so Tony had settled for hot chocolate instead.

As luck would have it, just as he had finished, Peter had come in, blinking sleepily at Tony through half lidded eyes and a half-present wisp of a smile.

"I could say the same to you," Peter answers, but it hasn't the bite nor the pointed look that may have come if he were speaking to, say, Rhodey. Instead it's said sleepily, half-thought through (if even that) as Peter's fingertips ghost along the edges of his upper lip. "Go to sleep."

He sort of waves his hand, almost drunkenly, in Tony's direction, as though the simple gesture would _poof_ Tony away to sleepy land on the Parker's couch.

Tony smiles a bit, and answers lightly, "Drink your cocoa and brush your teeth, then we'll see."

Peter pouts at Tony, or at least tries to, but it's significantly lessened because he's still quite out of it. "Fine," he decides, sighing, "You can stay up. But you've gotta take care of yourself, mister!" He sounds so like May in that moment that Tony can't help but snort a little.

"Yessir," Tony mock salutes.

Peter nods, too tired to weed out the sarcasm in that action.

"You should sleep, though, kiddo," Tony says quietly, sliding out the chair across from Peter and sitting across from him. The chair doesn't scrape against the floor, Tony lifts it a bit so it will remain silent, but something about the action, the _tok_ of the chair legs gently hitting the floor, makes him feel like a giant storming around in the silence of the little apartment, anyways.

"Wanted to," Peter yawns, wide and jaw dropping and big and loud, "Wanted to look at the stars."

Tony smiles, somewhat fondly, mostly in disbelief, "Kid, you can barely look at _me_ , what makes you think you can unglue those tired eyes to look at the stars?"

Peter frowns a bit, forehead furrowing and crinkling like he has been handed an indecipherable puzzle.

Tony shakes his head and laughs a bit, the sound soft so not as to wake up May. "Had any bad dreams?"

Peter shakes his head, "Had a weird one where I was a goat. Then the cacti came to life and helped me defeat Magneto."

"Is that so," Tony presses a fist against his mouth, shoulder shaking with silent laughter.

"It was fantastic," Peter says dreamily, "I was badass."

"I'm sure you were," Tony chokes out between his silent, hitched laughs.

"I totally was!" Peter swats Tony's arm, "You don't believe me!"

"Kid, it was a dream," Tony raises his eyebrows, amused, "Anything less than something dirty-minded, I'd believe you. Dreams are crazy like that." It's been a while, he thinks wistfully, since he's had a wacky and weird dream like that.

Peter pouts at him, "You don't think I could do it in real life, though?"

"Turn into a goat?" Tony asks.

Peter concedes with a nod, "I'm tired. I don't know what I'm saying."

This is hilarious, because with literally anyone else, Tony would have thought that they were drunk or high, but _no_ , Peter's just _tired_.

"Let's look at the stars for a while, kiddo," Tony smiles, "Then we'll go to sleep and have other wacky dreams, okay?"

Peter yawns, "Okay. Sounds like a plan."

And it is one.


	21. Chapter 21

"Do you ever," Peter's words are halting, stilled as he plays with the edges of his shirt, "Just feel... I don't know, left behind?"

"Like, in gym class?" Ned chuckles, "Because I don't know if you've seen me trying to keep up in track and field, but I _suck_ , man. I'm so glad that we're only required to take one year of gym."

"Not that," Peter laughs a bit, "I mean, like, there are people out there, inventing crazy new gadgets and writing books and being successful and I'm just..." he twists the edge of his shirt and untwists it, shrugging a bit, "I'm just here with you, not doing anything."

"We're trying to decide what to watch," Ned points out, offering Peter a small smile. "That's something."

Peter huffs, "Is that a no?"

"No," Ned sits back, letting the DVD sets scatter around him, "I get it. Like the whole world is going around you. People are learning new languages and getting part time jobs and just getting ahead in life, and we're just sitting here, not doing anything productive or cool, right?"

Peter nods.

"But you're Spider-man," Ned points out, "You're a _superhero_ , man! You're practically, like, a member of the Avengers already, and you've been to space and fought with aliens! And _I'm_ your ordinary, lame best friend."

Peter smiles a bit, "You hacked my suit."

"I did do that," Ned dips his head in acknowledgement, allowing a small hint of pride to color his voice for a moment before he continues, " _Not_ the point. I mean, you're already amazing. You're super cool, a lot of kids want to _be_ you when you're older!"

"Having experience in helping old ladies cross the street in a weird super suit doesn't land you any extra points on your resume, though," Peter points out.

"Do you even _need_ a resume?" Ned blinks, "Didn't Mr. Stark already guarantee you a job or something?"

"No! ...yes. Well. I mean. It's not about my resume," Peter sighs, "It's just, I feel _stagnant_. Like I should be someone cooler, with ambitions and goals and things that I want to do but I don't want to do anything, I want to play with legos and watch movies with you but I also want to be someone with a good budget that travels the world and... I don't know, has a job with Youtube or something... and who does amazing things and always looks put together and I just..." He groans, "I want to be a person that people point to and say _goals_ , you know? But instead I'm lazing about on the couch, about to watch movies. Like, I get the same amount of time in my day as Oprah Winfrey does, but she's getting a lot more done than I am."

"Okay, _mood_ ," Ned rolls his eyes, "You don't need to be someone amazing or super cool. You just need to be... I dunno, just you. And that's enough."

"Is it?" Peter despairs.

"Yes. Geez, man, you're going to give me a complex," Ned sits down next to Peter, "Look, do you really need to do those things? Will it make you happy to have a published book or be in a movie or meet Jimmy Fallon?"

"...No?"

Ned nods patiently, "And what _would_ make you happy?"

Peter shrugs.

"It's not the big things, I think, that make us happy," Ned hums, "It's not being cool or amazing or even wearing sunglasses that cover half of our faces that make us awesome. It's making others happy. Just doing nice things. Holding open the door for someone, helping someone cross the street, leaving a big tip for a waitress that needs extra cash. What you do when you're Spider-man, what you do every day, consciously choosing to help others, I think _that's_ what's important." He holds his breath, "At least, I think. I dunno. I'm just fifteen."

"I'm fifteen, too," Peter laughs a bit, elbowing Ned.

Ned makes a vague humming noise in the back of his throat, "So what do you think?"

Peter plays with the ends of his shirt a bit more, because he's the kind who likes to mule things over before he responds, at least in situations like this, slow moments between him and Ned, and then he sighs, "I think that I'm an idiot and you're always right."

"I mean, you're not _wrong_..." Ned drawls.

"Rude," Peter huffs, "You're supposed to tell me that I, too, am wonderful in my own way."

"You, too, are wonderful in your own way," Ned intones, and bursts into laughter, "But seriously, man. You good now?"

"Yeah," Peter softens, smiles, content and eyes closed, "I'm good. This is perfect."

Sitting beside his best friend, in a warm home, having someone to talk to, Peter thinks, _ah, yes_.

It's perfect.

* * *

It's 3am and the kid is chugging hot chocolate like there's no tomorrow.

"For Christ's sake," Tony says, horrified as he steps into the room and gives the counter a once over. Hot chocolate packets are stuffed so much into the trash can that he can't see anything below them, and the brand new bag of marshmallows that Peter had brought over last night is more than half empty.

Peter is sitting cross legged on a stool by the kitchen island, the wide granite counter that divides the kitchen from the dining room, and his fingers tap incessantly at the granite as he mumbles, "Morning, Mr. Stark."

"It's not morning," Tony rubs a hand over his face, wondering when he started feeling so old. "How long have you been up?"

The kid opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He shrugs, and Tony has the fleeting and somewhat maniacal urge to grab him by the shoulders and just _shake_ him until he's gotten some common sense.

"You know what, forget it," he suppresses the urge. _Someone_ has to be... well... at least vaguely responsible, and it sure as hell isn't going to be the kid that's doped up on hot chocolate and marshmallows in his kitchen. "FRIDAY?"

"Peter has been up for approximately one hour and forty-eight minutes," FRIDAY answers, light and blithe.

" _Christ_ ," Tony repeats, because it is the middle of the night and he is tired and thus has no brain-to-mouth filter. He scrubs his face with the heel of his palm and wonders who the fuck decided that it would be a good idea to give the kid Tony's bad habits. "You've been up nearly two hours and just... what, drinking hot chocolate?"

Peter shrugs, looking slightly charigned, "I thought that it would help me sleep."

Tony presses down on the lever to open the garbage and hisses, "There's what," he rifles through the bags with his index finger, " _Five bags of hot chocolate in here_? You only use half a bag for each cup."

Peter frowns at his cup, where his marshmallows are lazily dissolving, "There's not a lot to do at 3am," he mumbles.

"No shit there isn't," Tony hisses, because his brain has still not caught on and enforced the idea of him attempting to be a good role model (which is laughable, but Tony typically tries. He blames sleep deprivation, okay?). "Because you're supposed to be _asleep_."

And because the universe has decided to mess with Peter's life, he bursts into tears.

In front of Tony.

Who is not good with tears.

Shit.

What is he supposed to do.

What would _May_ do?

(May is in Europe for a business trip, and has thus decided that Tony can take care of Peter. Which is a foolish mistake because Tony cannot be good at Human-ing, it defies his nature. And now, Peter, sweet summer child, has decided that Tony is a trustworthy person to burst into tears in front of which is a lie because Tony is a failure who cannot emotion properly and that is why the vast majority of his relationships fail but he has got to do something now and he can't ask FRIDAY because that's "cold" according to Pepper and. AUGH.)

(Some detached part of Tony's brain notes that he spends a lot of his life internally screaming while trying to pretend to be cool and that is not what he is supposed to be focusing on because Peter is crying and he needs to make it better somehow.)

"I'm not angry," Tony blurts out the first thing that he can think of, because that's what the parenting books say, make sure your kid knows that you're not angry, right? (Does this apply in this situation? Tony doesn't know. Um. Emotional clarification is never bad, right? ...right?) "You're, ah, going to be okay."

He moves closer and sits down gingerly next to Peter (is this a good thing? He likes proximity but not touch when he has a panic attack. Wait. This isn't a panic attack. This is crying. Which is different. A lot different. How different? Tony doesn't know. Shit.), hands doing... something... as Peter sobs harder.

Tony pushes the cup in closer to the island's middle so that they don't accidentally knock it down and break it (because he is not confident that Peter will not accidentally step on the glass and start bleeding from the bottom of his feet right now) and then asks, "Kid, what do you want me to do?"

Straightforward.

That's okay, right?

Please say it's right.

Tony is not cut out for this.

"I... I'm sorry... I..." Peter hiccups, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as his chest makes little motions with each sob, "I can't sleep."

Oh.

Sh-drat.

Drat. (The whole "good role model" thing is starting to kick in now that Tony's a bit more awake, thankfully. Probably thankfully? Like, at least 83% thankfully.)

"Do you know why?" Tony is not going to jump to conclusions because he is pretty sure that is not healthy to do.

"I... my spider sense was going off like crazy," Peter hics, and reaches to take a sip of his hot chocolate. Tony pulls it away because he is positive that all this sugar is not doing anything for Peter's health, physical or mental. "And I just had this sense of _danger_ blaring at me and I couldn't sleep and when I woke up it was just... nagging at me... and so I thought hot chocolate would help but it's still kind of there but you're here and it's a bit better but my heart's still going fast and... I don't know..."

Tony feels something stirring in his chest, and he nods a bit, showing that he's listening, allowing Peter to go on.

Peter does. He talks about how he feels on edge, how his head is blaring and his chest is buzzing and sometimes he gets really freaked out that he'll miss something as soon as he falls asleep and he goes on about what Tony thinks he understands now, and Tony doesn't like the picture it paints.

Peter finishes, and there is a moment of silence before Tony asks hesitantly, "Do you think that it might be anxiety?"

Peter shakes his head, "I don't have anxiety."

Tony bites his lower lip because he hasn't trained out all his tells yet and because the kid is seriously worrying him, "Are you sure?"

"I..." Peter stares at his hands, "I... Fengchi said that I had it."

His therapist.

Which means.

"You have anxiety," Tony nods.

Peter shrugs, shoulders hitching to the tips of his ears as he curls into himself.

"Hey, hey, it's fine," Tony holds out a hand and Peter takes it, grip firm but not tight, like Tony is a lifeline but Peter remains aware of his strength. Tony tries to think about why Peter could be in denial, and makes a stab in the dark, "I have anxiety, too. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Apparently his stab hit something, because Peter's eyes widen as he looks up at Tony and breathes, awed, "...really?"

"Yeah," Tony rubs his nose, "I have ADHD, too, which is," he huffs, "A bad mix. And since people with ADHD are more likely to get mental illnesses than neurotypical people..." He coughs, "Anyway. It doesn't mean anything bad. Just that we need a little extra push to get where everyone else is, emotional health-wise. Nothing wrong with that."

Peter is quiet for a moment before he whispers, "Fengchi thinks that I have PTSD, too."

Drat.

Gosh dang it.

Butter Tony with Nutella and drop him in a bag of skittles.

"Do you know your triggers?" Tony makes eye contact. Peter blinks at him, waiting for him to continue, "Know what helps you feel better? Calm you down? Is therapy helping?"

"...I mostly know them," Peter says quietly, "Therapy helps."

Tony is silent, waiting.

"Drinking that much hot chocolate was a mistake," Peter laughs awkwardly, and when Tony keeps staring, he sighs, "But I don't regret it."

Tony bites back the instinctive response and waits.

"You're helping," Peter admits, "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

Tony's throat feels tight.

 _I'm not helpful_ , he thinks.

 _Don't rely on someone like me_ , he thinks.

 _I'm not worth that_ , he thinks.

"Don't mention it," he says, tongue dry, "Want to watch a sappy animated movie and fall asleep on the couch together?"

Peter laughs a bit, "Do we get pancakes in the morning?"

Tony raises his eyebrows, "With the amount of hot chocolate that you just drank, kid? You're banned from sugar for the next _year_."

Peter pouts and Tony laughs and they put _Coco_ on the TV, lights dimmed, Peter curled up in Tony's chest and Tony's arm around his shoulders and they get through that but they fall asleep halfway through _The Little Prince_ and that is how Pepper finds them in the morning, curled into each other with the TV off (courtesy of Friday) and she shakes her head at them before putting a blanket around the two of them.

They sleep in until somewhere near noon, when Tony yawns and huffs at Peter to _hurry up, kid, we've slept half the day away_ and they go to some 24/7 diner to get themselves a platter of pancakes.

(It is not perfect, but it is something almost better, because it is good and real and Tony could not trade that moment for the world.)


	22. Chapter 22

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" May's voice is amused, carefully light to show that she isn't angry, just teasing.

Peter hums from his spot at his desk, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, "Should I?" he asks tiredly, smiling wearily at May.

"Just maybe," May moves over to Peter to close his math textbook, "You needed some calming down?"

Geek that he is, despite the fact that it's summer vacation, Peter finds it calming to work on math equations.

Peter tips his head back, May pressing a hand against his cheek and tracing the curve of the bags under his eyes with her thumb, and Peter closes his eyes as he leans into her touch. "I was just trying to figure something out," he answers, cheeks pressing into the curves of her fingers and Peter seems content to stay that way, head dangling from the back of his chair, neck curved.

May, however, won't stand for that. "To the bed, mister," she huffs, "You'll break your neck, staying in that position."

Peter pouts at her but complies, and May tries not to go through any of her nervous tics when she notices that he hasn't even changed into his pajamas.

May sits next to him, carding her fingers through his hair and pushing baby wisps away from his eyes as best as she can, though they keep curling back, and asks quietly, "Have you figured it out yet?"

"Not yet," Peter answers quietly, leaning over and resting his head on her shoulder, "But I'm sure that I will soon."

May goes through a few bars of _God is a Woman_ before Peter continues, used enough to her technique to know that she won't let the subject drop so easily without letting him continue of his own violation.

"It's nothing. It's stupid, really. I can figure it out on my own."

"I find," May muses, "That it's easiest to figure something out when you have someone to bounce ideas off of."

Peter turns his head so that her shoulder folds in the curve between his brow and the tip of his nose, breathes in the scent of her new cucumber shampoo. He is utterly silent.

"It doesn't have to be me," May turns and kisses Peter on top of his head, nose folding into his curls, "You don't even have to let me know that you've talked to anyone. But if it's making you do math past midnight, I think you shouldn't have to deal with this alone."

Peter is silent and May is preparing to leave, but just as she is about to, he says quietly, "I'm just trying to figure out who I am, is all."

She is quiet, patient, waiting for him to continue.

Peter flushes, though she can only see it on the tips of his ears as they burn red, and mumbles, "It's stupid, I know. It's just such a... such a _teenager_ thing to say, it's stupid..."

"Don't say things like that to my nephew," May says sharply, "He doesn't deserve to be treated like that."

A sharp inhale, and then, softer, "It's just a little... ridiculous, isn't it?"

May has never been one to say things she doesn't mean, she just thinks about how to put it, but at the moment, she's not sure how to best put this, so she goes for straightforward. "When you're a teenager, it's part of your job to begin figuring out who you are, I think. You have so many opportunities. Clubs, new classes, new teachers and new friends. And you never stop, you will never stop trying to figure out who you are because you are always growing and changing and that's amazing. It's just that you haven't thought of this before, you've never had so much to learn before, so when you're a teenager, it seems overwhelming. But if you ever stop trying to figure out who you are, if you ever stop being a little bit confused about your identity, then I think you've become complacent, and I hope that never happens to you."

"Then it's..." the sound of Peter chewing on his lower lip, though Natasha's been trying to train it out of him lately, "It's okay?"

"More than okay," May pulls Peter closer and buries her face in his hair. He's been using her shampoo again, even though Tony got him that weird ginger shampoo last week. "I'm glad that you're taking the time to think this through and figure it out. Is that all? An identity crisis?"

"Well..."

Is a long, drawn out _well_ ever a good thing?

"I'm trying to figure out who I want to be, too," Peter says quietly, "What my goals are, what type of person I want to become. But it's hard, because it makes me feel bad about how I am now, and I don't like feeling bad about myself. Fengchi says it's unhealthy, but I haven't seen him yet since I've had this whole... teenage identity thing... so I haven't had anyone to really talk to about how to deal with it."

May tries to remember her teenage years, but she mostly just remembers a lot of rallies and realizing that being feminine wasn't actually a bad thing, despite what society taught her. She doesn't really recall having an identity crisis, more just realizing that judgement wasn't helpful to anything but misery.

"I think..." She breathes in, and hopes to the leftovers in the fridge that she doesn't say the wrong thing, "It's okay to set goals and look to the future. But you have to learn to balance both self improvement _and_ self acceptance. The important thing is to be happy, but in a way that's sustainable. Like how it's okay to love how my face looks, but it's also okay to wash my face every night so that in the future my face is cleaner, you know?"

Peter is quiet.

May mentally reminds herself that Peter thinks, and this is not necessarily a sign that she screwed up as a parent.

"I think you're right," Peter says, finally.

May mentally sighs in relief.

"Of course I am," she tweaks his nose, "Was that ever in doubt?"

"No," Peter laughs, batting her hand away, "I bow before the all knowing queen."

"You better," May grins at him.

Peter grins back.

"On that note..." May looks at her watch, "It is way past your bedtime, mister."

Peter smiles sheepishly at her. "Aw, May, it's _summer_ , though," he flops over her, arms dangling from the edge of the bed, stomach on her lap, and she rolls her eyes at his childish antics. "We can stay up together," he gives her the puppy dog eyes, "Talk and cuddle and maybe watch a movie..."

And normally, May would say _no_ , but she doesn't exactly have work tomorrow (Tony recently recruited her and gave her an amazing job with a pay that made May punch him until he halved it, and it was _still_ much more than her previous pay), so she tweaks Peter's nose and sighs, "Little siren."

"Singing since 500 B.C.," Peter winks at her, the effect somewhat ruined by how sleepy he looks.

"How old you must be," May hums, and, in an unanimous decision, they pull apart and lay down beside each other on the bed, Peter taking the inside and May the outside, squished together, shoulders smooshed and legs straightened. "Report?"

"I think... it'll take me a while to figure out who I am," Peter says slowly, thoughtfully, "But I think that it will come."

May closes her eyes and smiles a bit, "Okay," she answers softly, and it is.

* * *

Peter swings by Tony's place somewhere a little past two in the morning, dressed in a rumpled Baymax shirt and pastel blue yoga pants with pink flowers on it. His hair looks like someone dunked it in water and then twisted it into a million spirals, and the only signs of his Spider-man outfit are the web-shooters on his hands.

Tony, who has yet to fall asleep, meets him in the lobby with a bleary sort of attention. "Report, kid?" He asks wearily, using May's little code with Peter that always manages to get him to talk.

(It made him feel like a spy, May informs Tony with no small amusement.)

"I didn't want to be alone," Peter mumbles.

"Ah," May is on a business trip and Peter had opted to stay at home alone instead of with Tony, the way that he did when he felt like sleepy cereal mornings with an old movie instead of the caring way that Pepper not-so-subtly makes sure he's healthy and getting enough sun. "Want me for company, or someone more suited for this stuff?"

Peter smiles at Tony, small and weary but mostly amused, and moves over the slightest inch to indicate the idea of making room for Tony on the giant couch. "You'll do," he says in the snootiest voice he can manage, and Tony, sleep deprived as he is, laughs at that.

There is a careful sort of stillness in the set of Peter's shoulders as his eyes trace over Tony, something in the fold of his hand and the bend of his knees that feels a bit unsettling.

"You want a bed?" Tony asks as Peter puts his head down on Tony's shoulder.

Peter hums a bit of Oh Wonder's _All We Do_ , and Tony wonders how bad it's gotten when Peter says quietly, "Just had a bad dream, Mr. Stark. No need to worry."

Tony presses two fingers against the metal of Peter's web-shooters and Peter laughs a bit, caught in his lie.

"I waited until I was feeling better to come over, if it makes you feel better," Peter reassures him.

It doesn't.

"I'm glad you came," Tony answers, feeling tired and old and unsure of what to do but knowing that he must be doing _something_ right if the kid's coming to him past midnight.

(Or maybe it's just that he knew that Tony would be the only one awake, and he didn't want to disturb anyone. Yeah, that's also a very likely option...)

Peter sifts a bit more so that he can wrap his arms around Tony's waist and Tony stays very, very _still_. "I'll tell you in the morning," Peter says into the fold of Tony's shoulder, "If you want."

 _About the dream?_ Tony wants to clarify, though he knows that's the most likely answer.

"Okay," he says instead.

Peter falls asleep on Tony's shoulder and he wakes up with a numb leg, but he doesn't regret it.

Peter has poured out a bowl of Double Scoop Raisin Bran Flakes and watches Tony with a half-asleep sort of intensity, eyes smoldering but drooping and when Tony wakes, he lights up and shoots up so fast that he almost spills his milk. "Mr. Stark!" He says, delighted, and Tony blinks blearily.

"I can't believe you chose _that_ for breakfast," his mouth says, and Peter pouts at him, but it's more teasing than anything else.

"Okay, well," Peter's leg vibrates as he moves over, "I found the _coolest_ cover of _God is a Woman_ on dodie's channel..."

...Tony vaguely thinks _that's the youtuber that the kid likes, right?_...

"...and you've, like, _got_ to listen to it, the harmony is _awesome_..." Peter shoves a phone into Tony's face and Tony, still mostly asleep, takes it and listens silently.

It is good.

But.

Also.

"Where did this come from?" Tony asks, blinking at Peter.

"Oh, ah," Peter fiddles with his phone case, "I like listening to music to help, ah, ground me? Because I don't, you know, listen to music when I'm getting beat to a pulp or when someone's trying to murder me, you know? So it's, like cool. And I thought you might like this cover because. I dunno. I just liked it? And you have, like, good taste. Or, I mean, I think you do. I get that taste is totally objective, but..."

"It's all good, kid," Tony says hastily, realizing that if he lets this continue, Peter will go on for yet another one of his hour long verbal train of thoughts. "You're good, then?"

Peter presses a hand against Tony's shoulder and smiles hesitantly, "Yeah."

"Great," Tony yawns, "You spilling your nightmare on me now or after breakfast?"

Peter shifts, "Either is fine."

 _Yeesh_ , the kid is awkward as heck. "Knock me out, then."

Peter smiles a bit, as though imagining actually doing that, and plops down next to Tony. He sets down his gross and healthy cereal and wraps his arms around Tony.

Oh.

Okay.

 _That_ bad, then?

"We were on Titan," Peter's voice is small, and Tony tries to make sure his breath doesn't hitch the way it does whenever he thinks of the mess that was Titan, "And when he stabbed you, you just... bled out. You tried to stem it but you were in shock and when you tried to stop it, it was too late and I just watched as your blood was just drained out and then it was that. You just stopped moving and..."

He makes a sort of shrugging motion, as though to pass it off as nothing, but it's clearly not and Tony isn't in the mood to deal with a lecture about shrugging things off so he just hugs the kid back.

Peter's grip turns a bit tighter, but it's fine, and Tony presses his nose onto Peter's hair and says quietly, "I'm fine."

"I know," Peter answers quietly.

"You fine?"

A moment of consideration, then something warm in Peter's voice as he agrees, "Yeah."

"Okay."

They stay like that for a while, and then Peter goes back to eating his soggy, healthy cereal and Tony starts looking for something sugary enough to give him diabetes and it is getting better.


	23. Chapter 23

"Is that my shirt?" Ned squints at Peter over his mug of hot cocoa, blowing lightly on the surface. The marshmallows on top scatter, stark white against his Black Panther mug.

Peter lowers his eyes to the shirt that he's wearing, an over-sized thing with two cartoon fish in a pond and " _Playing Koi_ " scrawled under. Taking a moment to think about it, he goes on to realize that he doesn't really _personally_ own things that aren't fandom merch, geeky puns, or from Tony. (Which is sometimes also geeky, but in a "this is a teenage boy still wearing Iron Man pants" type way.)

"Probably," he sinks below the table a bit, slouching even further, "Is that cool?"

" _Dude_ ," Ned rolls his eyes, "You've been stealing my clothes ever since you spilled melted crayon all of your shirt in _kindergarten_."

That is an extremely valid point.

However.

"I didn't _steal_ it!" Peter protests, "You _offered_ it to me!"

Ned huffs, "Same difference."

"It's really not," Peter sulks.

"There, there," Ned pats his shoulder, "I love you, even if you're a total klepto."

"I'm not... you can't..." Peter groans, taking an angry sip of his hot chocolate and yelping when it burns his tongue, " _Hot_!"

"What?" Ned's eyes widen and he presses a hand to his chest, "Hot chocolate... being... _hot_...? Brain... can't... process... too... complex... I can't understand... it's too wild... the concept is too..."

"Oh, shut up," Peter grumbles, still partially hiding his face behind his mug, "So it's your shirt. You're okay with it, right?"

"Considering my decade of experience with you stealing my clothes?" Ned tapped his chin thoughtfully, "You know what? No. You suck. Give it back."

Peter pouts.

Ned rolls his eyes, "I'm joking. Of course you can have it. Like you have literally half my closet. I'm still waiting for you to return my Lilo and Stitch bomber jacket, by the way. MJ got me that and I happen to actually like it a lot."

"Sorry," Peter twists the edge of the shirt, "It's in the laundry basket of your clothes."

"The growing monster pile that never actually gets washed?" Ned laughs.

"I have _three_ of your shirts!" Peter protests, holding up three fingers, "That's not _that_ much!"

Ned raises an eyebrow, "It's not like you even keep them. You just steal them and then return them a week later."

Peter mumbles something.

Ned leans closer.

"They... smell like you."

"Oh my god," Ned leans back, looking horrified, "Oh my god. You're, like, not allowed to have a romantic interest in me. That's... that'd be weird, man. We're, like, brothers. I think of you as a brother. Like sibling brother. Like, dating you would be, like, _incest_. Please don't go the crush route. I support you being gay but..."

"It's not like that!" Peter lifts the collar of Ned's shirt over his head, groaning loudly once his face has been properly hidden from sight. "Oh my _floozles_ , Ned, you just made this so weird!"

"I'm _sorry_ , but!" Ned turns bright red, not that Peter can see it, "You could have started with something other than they _smell like me_ so you steal my shirts?"

"I just..." Peter peeks out, shirt collar still over his nose, eyes sitting just above it, "It reminds me of you."

Ned stares, and then stands up. "Just... just sit there," Ned makes a vague, super confusing hand gesture at Peter, who obediently stays sitting, waiting until Ned is out of the room to start sipping his hot chocolate and allow his mind to go through all the ways that Ned now is hating Peter and has begun preparations to shove Peter out of his life.

Wait.

No.

Peter is, like, 78% sure that's the anxiety speaking.

(He has 22% that thinks _no way, I am being totally realistic_ , but he's fairly sure that's _also_ the anxiety speaking. He's not _sure_ , but he's _fairly_ sure and that's close enough, right? Ugh. Mental health is confusing and his brain is a lying liar.)

"Okay," Ned's muffled voice comes from the bedroom just as Peter is debating whether or not Ned is _actually_ okay with his clothes being stolen all of the time or if he's just super kind and pretending to be okay with it. (It honestly could be either. Ned is awesome and also concerning like that.) "So, Google isn't helping me _at all_ , so I dunno if this shirt thing is related to your PTSD or not, so you're just gonna have to walk me through it."

Oh. He was googling it. Of course.

"I can return your clothes," Peter blurts out instead of responding.

Ned shoots him a weird look, "You always return my clothes on Monday," he shrugs, "I don't need all of them anyway. It's not exactly like I wear ten million outfits every day or anything like that."

Um. "Right," Peter says, "You're, like, okay with it, then?"

The weird look intensifies. (Can looks intensify? Looks can totally intensify. Peter is 83% sure that looks can intensify. Okay, fine, that's pseudo math, but the point stands. Stans? His brain is going weird places.)

"Of course, dude," Ned takes a sip of his hot chocolate, "If I had a problem with it, I'd tell you, up front."

Peter does a sort of bobble head nod that probably makes it look like his neck is going to snap off.

"Look," Ned sighs, "I'm neurotypical, so I don't know about your stuff. Communication is healthy. I'll tell you if you do something that upsets me, and you talk to me about your problems if you want to, okay? None of that martyr stuff, yeah?"

Peter tries not to tear up. "If I cry, it's because I'm sleepy," he says.

"Okay," Ned smiles a bit, "Same here."

They laugh at each other.

"So, just so we're on the stage, what _are_ we talking about?" Ned raises an eyebrow.

Peter takes a moment to think about it, and then glances at the clock. "Why is it so hot when it's almost midnight?" he wonders.

"Ugh, I _know_ ," Ned groans, flopping over, "And we're drinking hot chocolate like total _dopes_!"

* * *

Peter wakes up to May carding her fingers through his hair, almost absentmindedly as she flips through the new book that she's reading, _Turning_ by Jessica J. Lee.

He takes a moment to just take her in, the sunlight carving a golden line on her hair, most of it pulled back into a french braid that she went to sleep in, messy chunks of soft curls tracing her cheeks and stuck to her forehead. She's still in her pajamas, black Mickey Mouse shorts and a loose, pastel pink t-shirt with _QUEEN_ scrawled across the chest in electric blue.

Early morning, then, if she's still in pajamas and has her hair braided back.

"Time?" He mumbles, biting back a yawn and only half succeeding.

May glances at her watch, "6:30," absent-minded, fingers still curling through Peter's hair. "You're up early."

"For summer," Peter reminds her, smiling a bit, May laughing. Peter has this horrible habit of waking up at 6 a.m. on school days and being a morning person. May pretends to despise it, but Peter has caught her smiling into her tea more than once as she watches him excitedly chatter about his plans for the day when she wakes up at 7.

"No need to remind me," May hums, hand falling away from his hair to brush a thumb against his cheek, "Any reason?"

"Maybe you reading by my bedside?" Peter huffs playfully.

"I've been here for half an hour, kiddo," May laughs, "If it was me, you'd be up a bit earlier, I imagine."

Peter takes a moment to think about it, and, upon deciding that there's not much point in continuing that line of thought, turns to the book, "Good?"

"It's interesting," May nods, "Most authors, when they write memoirs on something they did, they focus a bit too much on relationships or their own ideas during that time. She focuses on the swimming, on lakes and when she talks about her emotions, it's usually related to the water. She does mention personal things at times, but you can tell that the focus is really on the water, on swimming. Her personal life is more like... a secondary story line, I suppose? It's curious, for a memoir."

"Rating?" Peter leans over to peer over May's shoulder.

"I'm not done yet," May laughs, "I'm not even halfway through."

"Still," Peter insists, "You can change it later."

"So far..." May taps Peter's nose, giggling when he goes cross-eyed looking at it, "A 7/10, I suppose."

"Good, then," Peter raises his eyebrows, "Should I read it?"

May hums in the back of her throat, thoughtful, "We'll see," she decides upon at last, tweaking Peter's nose before pulling her hand away to rest it on her lap, "What about you? What were you reading?"

Peter reddens, but tilts his head at his night side table.

"Ah," May's grin turns amused, " _Emily of New Moon_ again?"

Peter shrugs, "I can't read it at school, so..."

"And why-ever not?" May raises her eyebrows.

"Because this is a _limited edition copy_!" Peter reminds her, scandalized, "I can't risk taking it to _school_!"

"Ah, of course," May snickers a bit, "And you say that you don't like reading."

"Not as much as you do," Peter shrugs.

May's laughter is loud, this time, something that takes over her body and makes her eyes sparkle and their sides crinkle and infects Peter with his own smile. "Not many can love books so much as a writer," May says.

Peter supposes that is true. He's seen May, locked up in her room, typing away so furiously she cannot even hear him come home, focused in a world and people that only she intimately knows, polishing it so that the rest of the world can fall in love as much as she has.

"Bookworm," he grins at her.

"Nerd," she shoots back.

They laugh at each other.

Peter reaches over his night table to grab his own book, and in the quiet of the morning and the sleepy sun, they read together.


	24. Chapter 24

The world is different after rain.

Morning comes with no light, just a soft alarm that cares not to wake anyone else up because MJ is odd enough that she likes to wake at 5:30 (though today she has slept in to 6am, having this morning be special, after all).

Peter and Ned wake as well, Ned with a loud groan as he rolls off the bed onto the floor and Peter with a still, silent sort of wakefulness that she would not have caught if she hadn't heard the sound of his blinds being opened.

It does little to help them, soft, faint white light bringing nothing inside the darkness of the room. Though the sun has risen, the clouds refuse to show it, and yet the world outside is washed with bright, clear colors as though it has just been painted fluorescent.

"Mind if I open the window?" Peter's voice is groggy, still half asleep (as it ought to be, he didn't return until 1am, when Ned had decided that it was high time he finished his nth rewatch of _Star Trek_ and MJ had drooped off into Peter's bookshelf despite having brought three books in preparation for such an occasion, though, to be fair, she hadn't been able to resist the temptation and had finished the first on the bus ride to Peter's place).

"Isn't it still raining outside?" Ned is muffled by the fact that his face is stuck in his pillow, his attempt at rebellion despite having two morning people for friends (though really, Peter is a night owl and a morning bird and still refuses to take naps, so MJ is at a bit of a loss for what to call him because 'permanently exhausted pigeon' just sounds too tumblrish for her tastes).

MJ squints outside, though she can't really see anything.

Peter makes a sleepy sound of agreement. "Is that a no?"

"It's your room, man."

The window opens soundlessly, and Peter moves with an equally silent grace as he walks up the wall to the upper half of his bunk bed.

"Showoff," MJ teases, because Ned still has his face in his pillow and thus hadn't seen Peter's little show.

"Sorry," Peter is sheepish as he ruffles his hand through his hair.

The smell of rain seeps into the room, morning dew and damp dirt despite the fact that she knows water has no smell. (Besides that gross, rusted tap water that Peter had before Tony Stark had decided he was having none of that, she means.)

It brings in something fresh, new that wakes her.

MJ has always been a girl who woke up more with the chill of winter or the sound of rain, and Peter has always been... well, Peter. He's drawn away, unaffected by the seasons, and that irritated her before she had been drawn in so much that she couldn't care because he was one of the few that appreciated the sharp sting of cold on his nose as well as she did.

Ned, who has always been more of a summer child, isn't nearly so fond, but he is kind and positive enough not to complain.

The sound of rain has stilled to the loud, steady _drip drip drip_ of water from the edges of rooftops, though the sky is still grey and overcast. It will probably rain on and off throughout the day, and MJ looks forward to it with an odd sort of relish.

"Good morning," Peter's voice, a bit off tune but trying to be cheerful, sounds out.

A loud sigh from Ned, then, grumpily, "Gooood _morning_."

"It's great to stay up late," MJ rolls Ned so that he's on his back, if still on the floor, "Good morning."

"Good morning," Ned sounds off again, biting back a yawn.

"Toooo _you_ ," Peter tips his hat and slides down his ladder. MJ winces at the burning sensation that she would have gotten (but Peter is lucky, his body allows for this sort of stuff with no pain), and Ned laughs a bit, finally waking up more.

"Why is it that you're more awake than me? Totally unfair."

"Definitely," Peter agrees easily, a bounce to his step as he moves over to his closet, "I'm kind of cold. Anyone want a sweater?"

"Ooh, I want the Voltron sweater that you stole two weeks ago," Ned shoots up a hand.

Peter tosses it to Ned after a bit of digging, "You don't even wear sweaters in summer!"

"I'm wearing one now, aren't I?"

Ned is not wearing the sweater.

"You're not wearing the sweater," MJ says.

"Because it's _summer_!" Ned throws his hands up in the air.

Peter smiles at the two of them, amused even as Ned tosses the sweater on the lower bunk and exclaims _it belongs to me anyway, Peter stole it_ , laughing when he's tackled by Ned and MJ calls him a klepto.

"Okay," MJ stretches, yawns, while the boys finish up their little mock-wrestling, opting to take a page form Peter's book and pulling the Voltron sweater over her head when she feels a bit cold in her shorts. "The plan is pancakes, hot chocolate... it's _raining_ , Ned, it's cold enough, don't give me that look... then we're going to No Frills to buy some Pillsbury..."

"Chocolate chip?" Peter asks eagerly.

"We'll see," MJ hums, even though they always end up getting chocolate chip, the unanimous favourite between the three of them, "After we're done that, a movie and if we're feeling up to it, we can sound out _Youngblood_."

"5 Seconds of Summer?" Ned scrunches up his nose, "I'm not good with belting."

"Then you play the guitar and I'll take over vocals," MJ pulls her hair back into a ponytail, ignoring Peter's pout. "If you really want, we can record sounds in the kitchen instead and you can play with your little sound editing software."

" _Little_?" Ned echoes indignantly.

"It'll be fun," MJ pokes in in the forehead, "Or whatever you classify as fun."

"I have fun," Ned pouts.

She laughs and they go to make pancakes.

The morning is sleepy, but they are not, they are young and awake and alive and outside, the rain continues to fall.

* * *

"What the fu- loozle."

"OmigalOSHES!" Peter's spoonful of ice cream drops back into the bowl with a loud clatter, spinning a few times before coming to a halt in the half melted goop. When he catches sight of the figure standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, Peter relaxes, pressing a hand over his chest, "Gosh, Mr. Stark, you really scared me."

Tony stares with half awake, weary eyes, "Why."

Peter blinks innocently, all doe-eyed and sweet, and Tony resists the urge to scream at him. "Why what, Mr. Stark?"

"It is..." Tony huffs, "FRIDAY?"

"It is 2:58 in the morning, sir."

"It is _nearly three_ in the morning and you are awake eating... is that mint chocolate chip? Okay, first of all, _gross_..."

"You're here to lecture me about sleep, Mr. Stark, not judge my taste in ice cream."

"Disgusting stuff. Sorry, moving on from your gross ice cream tastes..."

" _Not_ gross."

"Whatever, kid. Anyways, you are supposed to be _asleep_ and not... wait, you didn't get a nightmare, did you? FRIDAY, vitals."

"Peter did not have a nightmare, sir," FRIDAY sounds distinctly amused, even though he is 99% sure that she was meant to be the not-snarky AI. "He has not actually gotten any sleep at all tonight."

"None? At _all_? Kid, you're killing me. Is this healthy, or..."

"I'm a teenager."

"Right, right. Anyways, _young man_..." Tony's lecture falls flat in face of the fact that he a) has no experience doing this and b) took too many detours on the way, so he just sort of gives up and sighs as he moves to the fridge, "I'm actually fine with mint chocolate chip, I mostly rib it to get on Rhodey's nerves."

"Like with the Hawaiian pizza thing?" Peter shoves a spoonful into his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah," Tony snaps his fingers, smiling faintly at the thought, "He was so mad."

"Rightly so," Peter points out, and Tony huffs at him, making little wiggly motions with his fingers.

"Psh. What's got you up?"

"Hormones and puberty?" Peter shrugs, "I was reading."

"Ah."

Tony takes Peter in, brain a bit more awake before he begins to spoon the ice cream into a bowl.

The kid has that Iron Man tank top that Pepper had got him to spite Tony (he hates those things, they turn all the 3D coolness into 2D lameness) and those Mickey Mouse shorts that he stole from May a while back, faded in contrast to the cherry red cloth on the stool that he sits on, and the book in his hands is mostly new, somewhat faded, _USED_ stamped on it's back cover in accusatory red.

The kitchen counter is nearly spotless, save one piece of scrunched up toilet paper that must have been used to clean up any past and future ice cream spills.

"Book?" Tony nods at the book, seeing as they'll be here a while.

" _The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry_."

"Review?"

Peter takes a bite of ice cream, "I think that you should read it."

Tony stares.

Peter is silent.

"That's it? Nothing else to add about it's plot or premise?"

"No," Peter stares at Tony. His eyes burn, but that may just be the lack of sleep. He's too tired for intensity, it's too late for stares that accuse him of... uh, something. He's too tired to complete that line of thought, as well.

"Great. Thanks. Very helpful." Tony sits down across from Peter and spoons some ice cream into his mouth so that he doesn't feel too awkward.

Peter smiles at him, warm and fond, and Tony wonders what he did to deserve a look like that from a kid like Peter. "I can read you the first chapter."

Tony eats some more ice cream, and in between bites, he says, "Okay."

Peter's voice is soft, slow, a methodical thing that tastes each word with a careful sort of articulation, as though each sentence holds the world within the first letter and the period signifying it's end. Tony thinks in between the pauses that Peter takes, and he thinks that it is intentionally done.

It's a book about a grouchy widower, and Tony thinks it has nothing to do with him.

"Kid," he says, "Are you trying to imply that I'm grouchy?"

Peter laughs, and moves on.

Tony starts to understand when the bookkeeper finds a little girl in his shop.

When he adopts the girl.

When he becomes kinder.

(But he will never admit it.)

And soon it is four in the morning and they are not done the book yet, but Peter needs sleep and Tony needs sleep and they're both disasters, so he says, "That's enough for today," even though he wants to read more, and Peter smiles gratefully, eyes drooping.

(They pick up in the afternoon again, having slept all the way through morning.)


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N:** I literally know nothing about Miles Morales. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I'm sorry, it just happened. I tried to avoid it by my brain was like _we're doing this_ and it just… happened…

There is an old woman in front of the convenience store, reading.

Peter is getting eggs, rice and tomato because May is out tonight, working ( _it's a habit_ , she confesses to her manager, who has an endearing habit of worrying over all of her workers, _getting work done early. I want time to look it over, make sure I've done it right_ and the manager sighs, knowing that May is stubborn, _just know that you don't have to, I don't want you to push yourself over the edge_ ) and the grocery store is further away so he has decided that he will allow himself to be lazy, just this once to buy supplies for dinner.

He is fumbling with his coins at the cashier while the teenager there throws twitchy glances at his phone, clearly wanting Peter to leave so that he can get back to scrolling, when the old lady comes behind him in line and says in a creaking voice, "How nice of you to buy groceries for your parents."

Peter drops a few coins, surprised, and she says _oh dear_ while Peter bends down to pick them up, stammering apologies while the cashier watches with an unimpressed stare and says _it's fine_ in a voice that clearly indicates that it is not.

"Oh, I'm," his voice is high pitched so he clears it a bit, "I'm not."

She is not so old that she would be senile, wrinkles on her cheeks but she has no cane in hand, meaning that she is well enough in health.

"No?" She raises her eyebrows, "Those look like they can be used for a few meals."

"Oh, yes, um," Peter blinks a few times, "I, ah, my aunt is out working so, um."

She understands, well enough, by the nod she gives, "You're alone tonight?"

The area isn't the best and it isn't uncommon for kids to be home alone while their guardian works. Tony offered them a better place, May had observed that she travelled a lot more and Peter spent many nights at Tony's place anyways.

(Later, when they are alone, Tony admits to Peter softly that though it's small, he has learned to love their apartment the same way that Peter and May do. Peter smiles and says it's something about family. Tony drops his gaze, but there is an embarrassed smile on his lips.)

Peter shifts, "Ah, yes."

"Ah, then," the old woman hesitates, "If it's not too much to ask, would you mind helping me with my groceries?"

And because Peter is Spider-man and figures that he can handle it if this is like an ambush or something (and if he can't, he knows that he's got at least three different trackers on him somewhere), he says, "Sure."

He finishes paying and puts his groceries into his backpack, which frees his hands to carry some groceries.

The old woman hands him two bags and keeps three to herself, saying huffily, "I can't exactly leave all the hard work to you, now can I?" when Peter tries to protest.

He laughs a bit at her and she smiles a bit, looking triumphant.

Her apartment is a few blocks from his, not too far, and when they reach her floor there is a boy around Peter's age (maybe a bit younger) sketching what looks like the margins of his math homework while a man around May's age watches over the edge of his phone.

He turns around and waves, surprised, "Mrs. Joyce? Is that your grandson?"

"I already told you," the old lady, presumably Mrs. Joyce, huffs, "all of my grandsons are ungrateful brats who I don't associate with. This young man decided to help me with the groceries, is all." She turns to Peter, who is ashen white, "You're staying for dinner, aren't you?"

It's criminal guy.

In front of him. With the phone.

Ice cream, informer criminal guy who said that his voice sounded like a girl's and laughed at his interrogation voice.

"I, um, couldn't," Peter squeaks.

"Nonsense," Mrs. Joyce pats his arm, "You're home alone tonight, right? Stay for dinner. My treat. I'm making vegetable timbale."

"You should just go along with it," the sketching boy says, smiling a bit at Mrs. Joyce, "She won't accept no for an answer. A week after we moved it, she started trying to get us to eat with her, and two weeks later, we gave up on acting like we didn't eat dinner at her place every night. You should, too."

"I don't want to impose," Peter mumbles.

"You're not," Criminal guy offers Peter an amused smile, which is very worrisome, "Mrs. Joyce has a habit of adopting anyone and everyone in her radius."

He dallies some more, they cajole him, somehow it ends up with him slipping off his shoes as he goes into her apartment, mumbling _pardon the intrusion_ as she huffs behind him _it isn't one_.

"Seriously, don't worry about it," Sketching boy introduces himself as Miles, patting Peter on the back, "As soon as you decided to help with the groceries, you condemned yourself to this fate."

"Good to know," Peter laughs a bit, "How did it happen for you?"

"I moved in to the apartment beside her," Miles scrunches up his nose, "And poof, that was that. I just happened to move in around the whole… you know, dust incident."

 _Thanos_.

Peter's gut curls.

"…and my mom, you know, she just…" Miles huffs, wiggles his fingers, and Peter nods, understanding. "She and I didn't, so she decided to let me stay with her while the Avengers did…" he scrunches up his nose, "You know. Whatever they did to save the world."

"I know," Peter says, quietly. He rubs his nose, "I mean, I guess I don't. I was one of the people who…"

Miles' nod is understanding, "Yeah. Kind of crazy, huh? I know that it was a huge disaster and horrible, and this is going to sound ridiculous, but I'm glad that I got to meet Mrs. Joyce because of it."

"I understand," Peter's stomach does something funny, "I got to meet a lot of cool people after the incident because of what happened."

Miles nods again, "Sorry. You came for a meal and I ended up bringing up something messed up like this."

"It's fine," Peter waves a hand, smiling a bit, "It's all good. All the people that I've talked to about it kind of tip toe around it? Like, they don't want me to freak out."

Probably for good reason, but he won't say that out loud.

"No, I get it," Miles smiles, and leans back, "Hey, do you think that we'll have alien protocols soon? Like how Japan regularly practices for tsunamis and stuff, right?"

Peter brightens, "Oh, man, that would be so cool! What if…"

He stays for dinner, exchanges numbers with Miles, and it's overall nice.

Criminal dude is disturbingly polite at dinner, asking Peter about school and homework and that sort of stuff.

Peter responds with a great amount of enthusiasm when he finally gets used to it and stops thinking of criminal dude as criminal dude and his brain switches to Mr. Aaron (his compromise with both Aaron and Mr. Davis), and thankfully, the others accept it as him being shy.

Miles chatters excitedly, too, and at times Peter is content to just listen but the people are friendly and they insist on including him in the conversation so he doesn't feel like an outsider.

"Thank you," Peter nods at Mrs. Joyce.

She huffs at him, "Don't be a stranger. Come again."

Something odd and warm in his chest swells, and before he can stop it, Peter is smiling as he answers, "I will."

(And this, this is why he's Spider-man, because he loves the people in his city, because he has been shown kindness and he wants to give back, just a little.

He talks to May about it that night over peanut butter chocolate chip ice cream, and she smiles with a soft, fond look in her eyes, and she holds his hand and Peter cannot help but smile back.)

Peter is sitting in the lobby when Tony finishes his board meeting.

He looks nondescript, plain almost, against the cherry red lounge chairs and the shell white walls. A pastel purple shirt with white circles in the front and a jagged, scribbled black _Hawkeye_ in the pack hangs baggy from his shoulders and he's in those skinny jeans that kids these days seem so fond of wearing, but which Peter has confessed feel weird on him, which means that he's likely been in contact with that politics girl that he seems so fond of hanging out with.

(Ugh. Between her and the hacking boy, Tony is pretty sure that Peter will have two pretty impressive people backing him up when he's older, but it disturbs him a bit, as well, that Peter only seems to befriend people who will grow into power like kids grow into tuxedos.)

A backpack is slung over his shoulder, which would make Tony a bit suspicious if it weren't for the fact that he knows Peter has been sitting here for a while, telling FRIDAY that he's "just trying to read in peace, 's all".

He holds a bright blue book in hand, seemingly a little before halfway through, and it's immediately bookmarked as soon as the kid catches sight of Tony.

"Kid," Tony greets Peter with a nod, and Peter beams back.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stark," Peter answers brightly, and before he puts the book away Tony catches sight of the cover, _You May Also Like_. "Fun meeting?"

"Pepper tells me that we were very productive," Tony shrugs, "I just build things. All this talk about stocks is making me dizzy."

Just to prove his point, Tony rolls his eyes back in his head and Peter laughs. Tony grins a bit, smug at his achievement in making the kid laugh, and his head bobs back down.

"That book from Pepper?" he asks, squinting at the cover.

"Yeah!" Peter beams, "MJ recommended that I read it, so Mrs. Potts lent me her copy when she was finished with it."

Tony isn't much for books, they seem dry and dull to him, but talking about them makes the kid all light-uppy and cheerful, so he asks the dutiful, "What is it about?"

"Oh, it's _fascinating_ ," Peter says, and in that little way of his, actually manages to sell it enough that when he finishes talking, Tony asks if he can read it once Peter is done. "Definitely!" Peter agrees, and Tony smiles because he is a fool that has fallen way in too deep to realize that he just _willingly asked to read a book_.

A _non-fiction book_.

That was not related to science.

(It is official. He's going insane. Soon he'll be in a straight jacket, locked in a padded room.)

By the time that Peter has finished babbling about his book, they have reached the walnut cake place that they were heading to and Peter opens the door, bouncing ahead a few steps when he realizes that they've reached it just so that he can hold the door open for Tony, because Peter is disturbingly eager to help others like that.

Peter is allergic to walnuts, so Tony orders the red bean and green tea shaved ice for Peter and the fruit bowl with shaved ice for himself even though he knows that they'll end up sharing as they always do.

"Just a regular size," he says, because he has once made the mistake of ordering a large and he eventually had to share it with Pepper and Rhodey, and _still_ ended up with a stomach ache from eating too much of it.

He hands over twenty dollars because these shops downtown are made to rob him and Peter huffs but does not argue over money matters because he has long since learned better.

They talk about idle, unimportant little things with each other before Peter asks, quietly, hesitance bleeding into the set of his shoulders and the way his eyes lower so that his eyelashes are all that Tony can see, "You've talked to Fengchi about Titan, right?"

His stomach churns and it's likely only the fact that it's Peter asking, Peter who most of his nightmares from Titan are _about_ , that he does not immediately start hyperventilating.

Peter stares at his shaved ice, his little plastic spoon, and his shoulders ride up to the bottoms of his ears as he winces, "Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn't have… sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn't… I wasn't thinking."

"No, I," Tony's voice sounds tiny, distant in his ears, "Kid. It's important to talk about these things, even if it makes me a bit uncomfortable. The more I avoid it, the more power I give it, you know?"

He feels better, now, lighter, somehow.

"I just didn't want to talk about it with you because," _because you still have nightmares about it_. "I wasn't sure if you were ready. But if you want to, then we can."

Peter's smile is small, faint, as he answers, "I was talking to someone about it earlier, and it got me thinking, is all."

Tony raises an eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Yeah, it's just," Peter stirs his shaved ice, spoon folding his red bean sauce into the shaved ice in magenta swirls, "Everyone's been avoiding it, you know? It's gotten all political, but it's also super personal, and it just feels like the whole world is holding its breath and refusing to acknowledge what happened. But I think… I think that it's important to talk about it, you know?"

Tony stares at his shaved ice and thinks _no_ , but his mouth says, soft, "It is when things are kept in the dark that they are feared, but the light chases away all darkness."

It's a quote, he can't quite remember where from, but it probably wasn't word for word anyway.

Peter's mouth twitches, a faint smile, "…Harry Potter?"

Tony's face burns, "Maybe." He honestly isn't quite sure.

Peter laughs at Tony, and Tony huffs at him, but it's alright somehow.

Peter talks about alien protocols, like how Japan has them for tsunamis, and Tony hos and hums as he thinks about it.

"It didn't stop the snap," he points out.

"The snap happened because Thanos had power over space/time/reality," Peter points out, unimpressed, "Although, I think it's also important to start discussing intergalactic politics. I know that we're barely put together on this planet, but that honestly isn't very good. I was talking to MJ about it, and she said that…"

Peter goes on, Tony pointing things out and making interjections, and when they are done, the shaved ice has long since been finished and Tony's stomach is growling for dinner.

They laugh at each other, and the conversation somehow ends up with them talking about that move _Inside Out_ , and Peter talks about how it made him cry while Tony says that it wasn't as good as _The Iron Giant_ and Peter throws his hands up in the air, _you can't compare the two, Mr. Stark! The Iron Giant is incomparable to anything else… except maybe Treasure Planet and Lilo and Stitch_.

 _Biased_ , Tony says, though he can't help but agree, _what about Anastasia?_

Peter asks if he's heard the musical, Tony says he hasn't, Peter shouts an indignant _what!?_ And over burgers they talk about the pros and cons of adapting a book or movie into a musical.

And it is loud and Peter babbles and he accidentally hits Tony once when he's talking because his gestures have gotten so passionate (he apologizes profusely afterwards, to the point where it's a bit awkward) and it is somehow perfect, like this, Tony thinks.


	26. Chapter 26

It is the middle of the day. Noon. Hot sun, pointless shade, feet aching over burning sidewalks.

Ned has never quite liked the outdoors, but this heat really, _really_ isn't helping.

He reaches Peter's apartment not a moment too soon, sun burning into the back of his neck and the backs of his hands and the cool air conditioning in the lobby is a relief that begs him to stay.

May is dolled up when he arrives, hair curled and in a sharp black dress, high heels in hand and sneakers on foot as she hugs him with one arm and says, "I'm so sorry," but Ned doesn't mind and he tells her as much.

"Don't worry about it, really," he says, because May is the sort of person to feel guilty over not being everything for everyone, no matter how irrational such thoughts are.

May bites her lip and looks guilty and Ned wishes that MJ were here because she was always better at diffusing guilt like Peter's, and by extension, May's.

"Thank you for trusting me," Ned says, instead, and May's bitten lip evens out into a soft smile as she says _of course_ in a voice that asks _why wouldn't I?_

It makes Ned feel proud and worried and there is an expectation there, that Ned will take care of things, which of course he will, but it's not often that adults trust fifteen year old boys and he has had experience with doubtful looks and the slow, drawn out, _I suppose_ … that indicates a lack of trust.

May is different, of course, maybe because she raised Peter, who went on to help save the universe, so she has this horribly high expectation that teenagers could be, god forbid, good and responsible people.

He loves her.

"Have fun at your business meeting," he says, because May is like Peter there as well, that she actually enjoys this sort of thing.

"I will," she frets, "I have sweet potato congee on the stove, of course you know where the medicine is" -2nd cabinet to the right of the fridge, third shelf- "the doctor's phone number is by the phone with the others, let's see, um, he hasn't thrown up or anything, but it's probably not a good idea to let him up and about because he _did_ collapse which was how I found out, you know what he's like and…"

"It'll be okay, Mrs. Parker," he promises, touching her arm, and May shoots him a frazzled smile.

"Right. Right, right. I can trust you, it's fine, I know, I know, I'm being a mother hen, it's just…"

"I know," Ned says, because at this rate, May is going to cancel the board meeting just to stay with Peter, "You go rock the meeting, I'll rock the mother hen-ning."

May smiles a bit at him, smoothes his hair back, "Thank you," she breathes.

Ned nods, she nods back at him, determined, and is out the door, hair loose and dress neat and sneakers silent as she moves out and he locks the door behind her.

When she is gone, he sighs and moves to Peter's bedroom, peering at the crumpled form beneath the blanket and halfway through a book with a black and white cover in blocky letter's typing out _The Fighter_.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Ned huffs, moving to sit by Peter and crossing his arms over his chest in what he hopes is a stern manner.

"Good book," Peter says, voice strained, and Ned thinks about how long it would take to go to the nearest drugstore and get some sleeping pills to slip into Peter's congee.

Ned peers at the cover, "Isn't it a bit too dark for you?"

Peter squawks, indignant, and Ned smiles a bit. "It is dark," Peter admits. Sits up, smiles a bit at Ned, is generally just kind of endearing in a stupid manner. "But I think that Mr. Stark will like it, and I want to finish it myself before I give it to him."

Ned hums, "His birthday coming up or something?"

Peter shakes his head, "I just thought that he'd like it."

Ned laughs a bit, "You know that he can buy it himself."

"It's not about the money," Peter huffs, reaching for his bookmark and slipping it between the pages of _The Fighter_. He shuts it and Ned catches sight of the author's name, _Michael Farris Smith_ , in blocky black against sharp white. "It's about being given something from someone who thinks that it will make you happy. It makes you feel…"

"…good," Ned finishes, "Alright, man. That's pretty cool. But you're supposed to be asleep."

Peter pouts at him. "But…"

"Did you have lunch?" Ned leans over, presses the back of his hand against Peter's forehead, "Dude, you're sweating."

Peter shrugs, forehead shifting against Ned's wrist, temple bumping against his knuckles and mumbles, "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat," Ned says, exasperated.

"Later," Peter insists.

"Look, man," Ned pulls his hand away, crosses his arms over his chest again, "Your choices are to take a nap or to have lunch. It's up to you."

Peter chews on his lower lip, then mumbles, "MJ was right. You _are_ a mother hen."

"Blasphemy!" Ned gasps. Grabs a pillow and hits Peter until he lies down again, laughing at Ned's reaction. "Just for that, I'm going to say lunch, whether you want to or not."

"Thank you," Peter says in a voice that very much suggests that he is not thankful.

Ned shakes his head, " _Stay_ ," and walks out, keeping the door open behind him just in case something happens.

The congee doesn't take long to reheat, though he has to add another cup of water when it seems like the rice to water ratio is getting a bit too much rice and barely any water. The chunks of sweet potato have mostly been mashed into it, and Ned is careful to stir while it's being heated up so that everything's evenly distributed.

The medicine cabinet, thankfully, has sleeping pills, and he takes it with half a bowl of soup to Peter.

"Eat," he says, popping the pill into Peter's hand and setting the bowl and spoon onto his bedside table.

"Thank you," Peter mumbles again, popping the pill into his mouth and eating the soup.

The pill should take an hour to set in, and Ned hopes that Peter's weird spidery physiology doesn't prevent it from working.

Peter tires a few minutes after finishing his food, lying down and yawning, "How's the weather?" as though it were a legitimate question and not something that people ask when they're feeling super awkward.

"Hot," Ned answers flatly, "You'd love it."

Which isn't saying much, because Peter loves all weather.

Peter laughs, reading behind the lines, "Too hot for a walk?"

"I need ice cream," Ned groans, "But I can't eat it until you're asleep."

"Very thoughtful of you," Peter says, and Ned shrugs. "Thanks."

Ned sticks out his tongue, "If you're really thankful, then go to sleep so that I can eat ice cream and watch cat videos on Youtube."

Peter ribs back something about too many cat videos and Ned being influenced too much by MJ, and Ned says something about pot, kettle.

Peter falls asleep near the end of a conversation about economics, profit, and how it isn't about money or the planet but in the end morals and priorities.

Ned says it's about people, in the end, some people vs. other people, and Peter laughs _we've been around May too much_ and Ned responds something but Peter doesn't answer, eyes closed and breathing shallow.

Ned makes sure that the blanket covers Peter, closes the curtains so the room is black, and then goes to eat some ice cream.

* * *

"Loser," MJ has barely said her hellos before she is dragging Peter down the street and away from his grocery aisle.

"I need to buy kale!" He protests even as he staggers after her, struggling to right himself as she fast-walks down the sidewalk.

"Eat dinner with me tonight," she answers shortly, and continues walking.

"I was going to eat udon with poached egg," he's whining now.

"You were going to cook and eat alone in your bedroom, watching some weird anime in your darkened room."

Peter has no answer to this, so he clamps his mouth shut and, quite wisely, does not answer.

"School is starting soon," MJ has braided back her hair, Peter notes, a thick rubber band at the end even though Peter has told her countless times that rubber bands aren't good for her hair, would she please wear a hair band instead?

"Yes?" Peter answers slowly, afraid of where the conversation is going.

"Have you gone swimming yet?"

" _What_?"

"I'll take that as a no. Ned says that May's abroad?"

"She's in the UK."

MJ keeps walking, "We're going to the pool."

"It's closed."

"My uncle works there, we can swim."

"Wow. That is… nepotism at its best."

"It's simply taking advantage where I have it," MJ rolls her head, stretching out her neck. Stray hair falls onto her forehead, brushing over the tips of her ears. "Honestly, Parker, I'm doing you a favor."

He huffs at her, MJ who acts aloof and bored, hands in her pockets and expression blank, who says _I'm doing you a favor_ as though she were a child chasing a whim but who also decides to go through all this effort for him just so that he can swim before summer's over.

"You're ridiculous," he says, and she smiles, wide lips and soft fingers and tips two against her brow as though she is saluting him.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," a bow with her back too straight from practiced formalities to seem as mocking as it should, a wry smirk at the edge of her lips, and he wonders.

He shakes his head at her, she laughs at him, it's an old song and dance, the rhythm to which they've long since learned.

The water is cold and the lights are dim and Peter has never been much of a swimmer for all the gymnastics that he's done, but it's fun all the same, tilting on his back and closing his eyes as he allows himself to float.

MJ jumps in with all her clothes on. When he raises an eyebrow at her, she raises hers back, as though to dare him to comment on it.

Peter huffs at her, she smirks, smug, and he splashes her because, really, MJ is just ridiculous.

She splashes him back, a sweeping movement of practice, water smashing against him in a cold kiss and then, just for good measure, she dunks his head underwater for one, two seconds before letting him back up.

"You're terrible," he sputters when he comes back up, too busy laughing to gasp for air.

"I know," she says. Then, eyes sparkling, "Hold your breath, I'm going to dunk you again."

He shakes his fist at her and tries to run. He manages to get far away enough, though the water slows him, because MJ is wearing a heavy jacket.

She huffs and takes off her jacket and shirt, leaving her in a sports bra and jeans.

Peter squeaks and covers his face.

"Oh for Pete's sake," MJ is rolling her eyes at him, "You're ridiculous."

"Please put your shirt back on."

"I'm not doing that for your comfort. You act like I'm going to jump you or something."

"MJ, please."

"No."

"This isn't fair."

Smug, "I'm going to dunk your head now."

And because Peter is stupid and refuses to open his eyes, she does.

(Later, they float on their backs, eyes closed, water dripping from his brow and into the curve of his closed eyes, and MJ's voice is soft, teasing as she says, "Is it because I have better abs than you?"

"For the sake of all that's good and right!" Peter exclaims, and the peace is broken as they start splashing each other again.)

 **A/N:** And then I was like "let's just give the readers everything that they want". So. MJ and Peter shippers. Sickfic lovers. Ned lovers. You have it all. (Except Irondad and the beautiful May Parker. But you'll get that soon, promise.)


	27. Chapter 27

There are some times when Peter wishes that he could be… more.

Not, not _more_ , more.

Not, like, he wants to learn Chinese and fence and basically be Adrien Agreste.

(Okay. Fine. So, maybe, a _little_ , he wants to be Adrien Agreste. But, um, who wouldn't? Also, Adrien is like a younger, not-inventor version of Tony Stark. Actually. Hm. He wants to be a mix of Adrien Agreste _and_ Tony Stark. Wait. Stop. He's getting off topic.)

Not for his own sake. Though he does, a bit, wish to be more for his own sake.

But not in this case.

Here it's, it's, he just wants to be better. Kinder. Less clumsy, smarter, he wants…

He wants to make May smile.

Okay.

Fine.

He understands.

That is out-of-the-blue and irrational and all those things that MJ tells him emotions are. But, it's.

Peter has had a cold, alright? And he's, just.

May's just.

She's everything.

She makes him ginger tea and tells him to rest and doesn't let him kiss her because she can't afford to get sick as well but she tells him to get off his laptop at 7pm even though he has to finish writing this program you don't _understand_ (except she does, perfectly, and in the morning he realizes that his program wasn't that important after all) and when he feels a bit better she takes him to the nearby grocery store and buys him red bean ice cream and.

He loves her so much.

And this isn't, it isn't the guilt that eats at him, isn't the part that wants him to make up for being not enough, it's not that he isn't enough, it's just that he wants more, even if he were enough (he isn't sure if he is, but he supposes that he has time to become enough, he's only 15, after all).

She calls him from work when he comes home from school (perfect timing, because May is amazing and brilliant and she cares so deeply about him) and makes sure he stays hydrated ( _I know, I know,_ Peter grumbles, and he can imagine May with her hands on her hips, exasperated as she demands _then why don't you do it?_ ) and scolds him for not drinking enough during class despite the fact that it is supremely awkward to drink while the teacher is talking and May needs to understand this.

(Except this, too, she understands perfectly and it turns out that people actually _do_ drink water while the teacher's talking and it's not weird and this is, once again, just Peter being weird and awkward and, according to MJ as she rolls her eyes, _Peter_.)

So.

Back to wanting to be more.

It's not—exactly, easy to put in words. It's just that—he wants to make her happy. That's all. He supposes that's what you're always supposed to feel like, when you love someone, and May is family, so Peter supposes it's normal.

Nevertheless, the feeling persists from the start of his sickness to the end of the school day when he sits in the bus next to Ned, talking it over.

Which is why he's cooking dinner while MJ reads nearby to make sure he doesn't burn the apartment down.

MJ calls out helpful things like "you absolute twit, it's _two cups_ of water, do you want to have congee instead of rice?" so Peter is very grateful to have her with him, though it makes him complacent, and after her third correction, he decides that his previous decision to triple check the cookbook after every step was probably unnecessary.

He likes this, moments like these, when he can fully appreciate that he can breathe properly without blowing his nose every three seconds (how he lasted through class, he is still bewildered. Tylenol is a miracle) and be worried about little things, like burning down the building.

"Maybe we should open a window," Peter says worriedly, "I mean, if it burns…"

"It'll be fine," MJ flips a page, "The worst that could happen is we all get carbon monoxide poisoning and die in our sleep."

Peter shoots her a concerned look, "That is a very bad case scenario."

MJ rolls her eyes at him, "It'll be fine. You have carbon monoxide detectors, remember?"

"Oh, right," Peter starts to chop some of the sweet potatoes in half to alleviate his concerns, "I just, um, I'm not the best at cooking."

"No kidding," MJ raises an eyebrow, "You're not a total loser, though."

Which is MJ for "you're doing great, keep it up!".

"Thanks," Peter says, knowing too many of MJ's tells to be disgruntled.

She huffs at him, which is MJ for "stop ruining my reputation, you loser, I am mean and cold and heartless".

Peter bites back a smile.

The clock strikes 5 when MJ stands up, raising an eyebrow at him, "As boring as this has been—" Peter laughs at her and she glares at him, "—I've got an engagement to get to."

"An _engagement_ ," Peter shakes his head, "You mean, you've got a thing?"

She scrunches up her nose at him, "Don't try to infect me with your plebeian language," she sniffs.

Peter's laugh is a bit louder this time, "Sorry, sorry. So, what are you doing?"

MJ smirks at him, MJ for "wouldn't you like to know".

"Wouldn't you like to know," MJ says, which makes Peter's facial translation totally useless. Then again, it's good to know that he's good at it.

"Okay, okay," Peter shakes his head, "Don't tell me."

She smirks at him and throws her bag over her shoulder, tossing a, "Don't burn down the kitchen," to Peter and then she's gone, leaving Peter torn between laughing at her and worrying that it could actually happen.

Thankfully, the food all comes out nicely, except for the rice, which is a bit burnt ( _how,_ still escapes him. He had set up a timer and everything!)

May comes in somewhere after 8:00, hair rumpled but dress smoothed, so Peter feels he's warranted in his concern when he asks, "Rough day?" One of May's tells is that she runs her fingers through her hair when she's nervous.

"Oh, not too bad," May sighs as she takes her shoes off, "Just a bit of a prick today at—oh, wow. That food looks good. Where'd you order it from?"

"I, uh," Peter suddenly feels extremely worried that the food is trash, "I made it."

"Oh," May's face lights up, "That's amazing! I can't wait to taste it."

Peter bats away his second doubts, though he allows himself one last, awkward laugh, "Hopefully it's edible."

May makes a three clawed symbol over her heart, "No negativity in this house."

"Okay, okay," he grins at her, "Go change into something comfy."

"This is comfy," She twirls for him, "And it makes my body look _great_."

" _May_ ," Peter groans, burying his face in his hands, "I don't need to hear this."

"Yeah, yeah," May grins at him, "C'mon, no encouragement?"

"You look great," Peter flaps a hand, "Now go change."

May laughs and goes.

When she returns, they end up eating on the couch, May dramatically telling a story of something happening at work and then Peter talking about the piece of onion that flew across the room when he accidentally cut it ( _how do you accidentally cut something?_ May demands, and Peter shrugs, sheepish _it's a talent_ ).

Somewhere along the line, the conversation turns to lofi music vs metal and it's good and comfortable and Peter is content.

* * *

Tony knows that he fucked up even before the kid started crying. The tears were, for sure, the dead giveaway, but he has never been good at helping with homework, in his opinion, better for bouncing ideas off of for extracurricular robotics and stuff.

"Holy shit," he's not freaking out.

The kid keeps crying.

"I'm sorry, kid," Tony flails his arms uselessly.

Okay.

Fine. So, maybe, he's freaking out a _bit_.

"I didn't mean to make you cry— if you could tell me what I did or—"

The kid's breath hitches and Peter blows his nose.

A lot.

He's freaking out a _lot_.

"What do you want me to do?" Tony asks nervously, shoving down the urge to ask FRIDAY what to do, the little Pepper in the back of his mind going _it's just rude, okay, Tony_?

Peter holds up one finger. Keeps blowing his nose.

"Um, you know, this probably doesn't matter that much," Tony glances at the worksheet, "I mean, like, it's just homework, right? It's nothing to cry about. You can probably just ask your teacher for help on Monday and—"

"I _know_ ," Peter cuts him off, and then blows his nose again. "I know that it's not a big deal, but I just," his words come out sort of garbled, choked out, "I'm just frustrated."

Then Peter goes back to crying incoherently and wisely decides to not speak for a while. He probably couldn't get the words out, even if he wanted to.

And Tony, because he doesn't know what to do, stands up and asks nervously, "Do you want pizza? I have pizza. I made it with Bruce, actually. It's, um, kind of ugly. But it tastes good. There's goat cheese. You like goat cheese, right? It's weird, but Bruce is lactose intolerant and—"

Peter laughs a bit, awkward and stilted and muffled because of his stuffed up nose, and he says, "It's okay, Mr. Stark," like _Tony's_ the one who's crying and not Peter.

"I know that. It's fine. It's totally fine," Tony knows that this will turn into a ramble if he keeps talking so he shuts his mouth.

Peter gives him a kind of amused look, which is kind of strange because his nose and eyes are red and he's crying a bit, still, like his body hasn't caught onto the fact that he's alright-ish, now. "You made the pizza yourself?"

"With Bruce."

Peter nods. Blows his nose again. "Let me work on it," he says, "By myself for a bit."

Tony flounders. Tries to figure out what Pepper would do, but he draws a blank. "It's not that important," he ends up saying, for lack of knowledge of what else to say.

"I know," Peter answers. Wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Tony sits on the couch, silent, while Peter stares at his worksheet, occasionally reaching for the tissues to blow his nose.

And then, finally, Peter scribbles down an answer, occasionally crossing things out and redoing them, but he gets to what's (hopefully) the answer, and leans back, breathing in, out, shoulders relaxing.

Tony waits.

And Peter, after what feels like an eternity but is likely only a moment, glances at Tony, "Thank you," he says in a small voice.

"For what?"

"Trying to help," Peter inhales again. Exhales.

Tony does that, too. Inhales. Exhales. Then answers, wryly, "Key word being trying."

Peter shrugs, a one-shouldered movement, like he's saying _what can you do_. "Trying is good."

"Right," Tony still feels awkward. "Sorry for, um, making you cry."

"It wasn't you," Peter blinks rapidly, "I was just frustrated. I felt stupid, because I didn't get it. I worked on it for, like, an hour yesterday before giving up, so I just felt," he exhales, rough, loud. "It's ridiculous, I know."

"A bit," Tony ruffles Peter's hair, "But your tenacity is admirable."

Peter squints at Tony, "Pizza?" he asks hopefully.

Tony grins, "Thought you'd never ask."

And pizza it is.


	28. Chapter 28

Spider-man tumbles through Flash's window somewhere near midnight, when his eyes have started to go blurry and the caffeine leaves behind only a weary inability to sleep.

Flash, predictably perhaps (it is a _totally_ normal response), screams and falls out of his chair.

"Omigosh!" Spider-man's hands hover awkwardly over Flash, "I'm so sorry! I totally didn't mean to do that, man, I'm sorry. Are you okay? You're not, like, hurt or something, are you?"

Flash looks around, and picks up his textbook, "I will call the cops," he threatens, "Why are you in my room?"

"I'm, um," Spider-man moves his hands awkwardly, that way that Peter does when he's trying to explain something but still figuring out how. Oddly enough, it makes Flash trust Spider-man a bit more, "I'm a bit injured. And, um, your light was on and…"

"What the fuck," Flash lowers the textbook a bit, "You can't go into random people's houses! My dad is going to _flip_ if he sees you here1"

Spider-man winces, which is super weird on a masked superhero/vigilantes/whatever, "Sorry, man. I can leave, it's just, I saved you in Washington—"

"That doesn't mean you can come into my _room_ —"

"And you gave me your car—"

"You _crashed_ it—"

"So I thought that I could trust you," And Spider-man, in all his costumed glory, looks like a _puppy dog_.

What is Flash's life, even.

(Peter's going to _flip_ when Flash tells him. He's a huge nerd, like that. Ned, too, probably.)

"With _what_?" Flash demands.

"Um," Spider-man turns a bit, showing Flash his side, where he notices a giant, white sticky web, and when it peels off…

"You've got a _bullet in your side_!" Flash freaks out. Just a bit. He is completely unashamed of saying this. "What makes you think that I can help?"

"I don't need much," Spider-man says quickly, "Just a clean knife and maybe some disinfectant, but if you don't have any, I totally understand."

Flash breathes.

In.

Out.

(Who knew that MJ's impromptu _this is what you do when life is fucked_ lesson would come in handy so soon.)

"Okay," he says, a false sense of calm washing over him, "Okay. You sit down, sit down, rest your head against the wall or something. I'm going to get a kitchen knife and some disinfectant—"

Which is probably going to worry his mom when she comes home, but whatever. Just because Flash tends to accidentally walk into door frames sometimes doesn't mean she needs to always check the first aid kit.

(Okay. Fine. Maybe a little. But it was literally _one_ … maybe two… why is he still thinking about walking into door frames? So he does it. Whatever. Moving on, bleeding vigilante in his bedroom and whatnot.)

"—Don't move. Stay awake."

Spider-man gives him the thumbs up.

Flash doesn't really remember what happens after that. It's a blur of movement, calm and precise action, he knows that he does it with the mechanical, habitual manner in which one would go about their morning routine, moving from one thing to the next, having laid out a plan (comp sci class helping real life, hey, isn't that cool, Ned was right), and all that's left is carrying it out.

When he's done, Spider-man smiles brightly at him, having pulled his mask up to his nose, "Thanks, man."

"No problem," Flash hears himself say, because he's still numb, still feels this is too unrealistic for the fact that _holy shit this is happening_ to set in.

Spider-man regards him, tilting his head to the side, and then he says, sheepishly, "Sorry to interrupt your studying."

"It's fine," Flash mumbles, "Chemistry was never quite my strong suit, anyway."

"I'm sure that you're doing just fine," Spider-man grins, crooked and roguish and it's familiar but why, Flash just can't place his finger on…

"Thanks, man," Flash sighs, "You're doing great, too. You're really cool."

Spider-man rubs the side of his nose, looking almost bashful. "Aw, thanks, man. That means a lot. Are you talking about the, um," he clears his throat, "Avengers thing a while back?"

"No, just," Flash shrugs a bit, "You probably don't remember, but my ma forgot to bring her wallet to the grocery store once, and you lent her a twenty. She's really grateful for that. It was pizza day, a family day, so," what is he doing. Spider-man doesn't need to know this.

Spider-man smiles, anyways, soft and satisfied, and seems to melt a bit, shoulders relaxing, "I remember. She got goat cheese, and was going to put it back."

"Yeah," Flash blinks, surprised, "And you're always, just, helping people? Like, you're not just an Avenger, you know? You're here for the little guys, too. I don't know if Iron Man would go out of his way just to help an old lady across the street."

"He probably would," Spider-man laughs, "But I get what you mean. Thanks, man."

"Yeah, well," Flash shrugs a bit, "Least I could do for New York's hero. You know, everyone who's for the accord, who thinks that we don't need superheroes, still loves you? It's really weird, but it's like the city's adopted you."

"Aw, thanks, man," Spider-man smiles a bit, "For everything. It means a lot."

"Yeah, well," Flash clears his throat. Tries to sound intelligent, "Yeah."

Soooo smooth.

He thinks, though, from Spider-man's crooked grin, that he understands.

Then Spider-man's on his windowsill and Flash is demanding, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Um… leaving?"

"Not with that injury."

A beat. "I have super-healing."

"Oh, so it's fine?" Flash raises an eyebrow, "Don't think so. I brought bandages."

Spider-man blinks, "Why do you have bandages?"

"I babysit," Flash groans, "Kids are terrors."

A laugh, and then Spider-man sits on the edge of his windowsill, still smiling, "Alright. Just until you finish, though."

Flash bites down an argument, and instead just gestures.

It's wild, honestly. He's still not sure that it wasn't a weird dream or something, it was a totally surreal experience.

(But he keeps the bullet in his bedside drawer, and it sits there, a remnant of the time where Spider-man came in through his window.

Ned is going to _flip_ when he tells him.)

* * *

The rooftops are frosted over with pale white that will melt as the day comes when he wakes, a cold room and a warm blanket coaxing him to stay down as his alarm rings.

Peter is still tired, still only half awake, but he knows that if he doesn't get up _now_ , he'll still have to get up _soon_ , as it's better to get things down sooner than later, right?

Yeah.

The self-help books are totally awesome.

He doesn't want to move in the cold (spiders are cold blooded, right? Wait. No. They probably don't have blood. Do spiders feel the cold? Are they sensitive to the cold? Do spiders die out? He's pretty sure bugs die out when it's cold. Maybe Canada doesn't _have_ spiders! That would be… wait, what if they don't have bugs? Or they have weird, mutated bugs, like Australia, but the bugs are mutated to the cold and—google says that spiders have antifreeze that can keep them good down to -5 degrees C, wow, that's cool, maybe he can—off topic, off topic, oops).

He doesn't want to move in the cold… but he has to… Peter groans as he makes his bed. Maybe it's just a morning thing. Or a my-blanket-is-super-comfy thing. Hm. What's as comfy as a blanket?

A SWEATER.

He will put on a sweater. Then he can wear his pyjamas _and_ be warm.

Oh yeah. 100 points to Peter-man for critical thinking.

Wait, what?

His brain is taking way to many detours this early in the morning.

Peter moves through his morning routine with relative ease, slipping on socks so that his toes don't freeze when he has to stretch and feeling Too Tired for This as he goes through his Spanish words of the day, falling into the beat by the time that he needs to change into regular clothes and that awakeness (and also the cold outside world) is what keeps him from thinking _you know what, I've worn pyjama pants to school before, it's fine, no shame, it's chill…_

May is already at work when he leaves his room, having come in for a quick hug-and-kiss-and-loudly-yelled-BYEs while he was dragging his feet through Spanish, the toaster is out and there's a hastily washed dish dripping in the dishwasher.

He had planned to make an omelette with spinach last night, but it is too early and Peter decides the frozen waffles in the freezer are perfectly good substitutes. He can totally put spinach on waffles, right? Right.

(He does not put spinach on waffles, because, he decides after seeing the raspberry syrup they bought the other day at the farmer's market, that is disgusting and waffles are meant to be enjoyed without shame or regard for healthy eating.

The waffles taste delicious, so Peter honestly doesn't worry. One missed spinach omelette won't make a difference, right?)

On the bus ride to school, Ned immediately puts his head on Peter's shoulder and tries to sleep, it's that sort of morning.

"That tired, eh?" Peter laughs.

"I had a dream about bulk barn and zombies," Ned yawns, "Tell you about it once it's finished."

Peter laughs and watches the houses go by, drinking in the soft morning before school comes and the day flies by, the end of the day coming both too fast and not too soon.

Flash is waiting at his locker when he arrives, holding a tray of drinks and reading a book on the quantum world, trying (and failing) to look normal.

"Is this your attempt to woo me?" Peter asks with a faint smile when he walks up.

"This is my attempt to get MJ to finally give me the sheet music I've more than well earned by now," Flash quips back, but it's good natured, he's already accepted having been swallowed into their motley little crew.

"Which one's mine?"

"Whichever," Flash shrugs, "Just not the coffee. That's mine."

Peter picks some hot chocolate, smiling when he tastes it. "Coffee? How can you stand it?"

"Coffee is what keeps me alive, my dude," Flash finger guns, and then bites back a yawn, "MJ wants me to tell you to get an outfit ready for halloween, because we're, I quote, 'going to look fantastic and you can't stop this'."

"Message received," Peter says, mind flying through the possibilities.

Flash smirks a bit. "Ned here today?"

"Physically, yes," Peter grins, "Mentally, I think he still wants to be back in bed."

"Me, honestly," Flash blearily sips his coffee, "See you in class. I've got to deliver to MJ before class starts."

"Sounds good," Peter nods, and Flash is off.

He takes a sip of the hot chocolate again, and melts.

Mornings like this? Just fine.


	29. Halloween Special

Pepper is smiling at him.

Pepper is smiling _very widely_ at him, and he loves her, he does, but Pepper rarely smiles at him like that when he hasn't finished all of his paperwork yet and since there's currently a huge stack in front of him, he's pretty sure that's not why she's smiling.

Which raises the question, why is his wife smiling at him like that and why is it setting his hairs on edge?

"Have you seen it yet?" She finally gushes, breaking like a dam when he stares at her a bit too much longer than he probably should have, leaning back slightly and probably looking more concerned than he should.

(To be fair, Pepper would be well within her rights to murder him and Tony is scared that one day she'll come to her senses and do exactly that.)

"…Seen what?" Tony asks suspiciously, remembering the last time she asked a question like that in a situation like this.

 _Easter_. Confetti everywhere. Cute little stickers and… _worse_ … grade schoolers coming in with their parents to find chocolate and touching his beautiful tech with their grubby little fingers and…

 _Ugh_. He shudders, just thinking of it.

Pepper's smile widens.

Tony steels himself for the worst.

 _Please not grade schoolers please not kindergarteners please not small humans just please please please_ …

"Mrs. Potts?" Peter pokes his head in, looking confused, "Isabel, the, um secretary with the cool galaxy hair, said that you wanted me to come over? Is there any reason why—"

 _Omigosh._

It's not small humans.

 _Oh. My. Gosh._

It's fantastic.

"Oh my god," Tony whispers. Peter peers at him, reddens, and Tony demands, "FRIDAY, are you recording this?"

"I am now," FRIDAY sighs, sounding vaguely _done_ with him, but he cannot even care because this is glorious and wonderful and…

"Those aren't LED lights, are they?" Tony stands up, speed-walking over to Peter to double check, "Because this is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and it has a long ways to go in order to be more technologically advanced and properly represent my armour."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," Peter says, in that flat way he does when he wants to be delighted by Tony just didn't human right for some reason, "I tried."

"And it's a valiant effort," Tony admires it, "Especially since you basically recreated my suit from _cardboard_. Kudos to you, seriously, however, that being said, my lab is always open if you want to tweak it in some ways and…"

"It's for _Halloween_ ," Peter groans, "It doesn't have to be high end."

Tony makes a wounded face, "But…"

"No buts," Peter crosses his arms, which is a feat when they are covered in cardboard.

Pepper snickers in the background.

"Fine, fine," Tony pouts, "You going for candy tonight with all the other small humans?"

Peter brightens, arms uncrossing, cardboard making a weird and slightly annoying sound but that's okay because Tony is still very flattered and delighted, "MJ sort of gathered the school together with Betty Brant to rope the whole school into doing _Trick or Eat_. We're going in groups to get non-perishables for the food bank tonight instead of candy."

"That's very good Samaritan," Tony says, taking a moment to mentally laugh that of _course_ the kid would do something like that. "So you're not Spider-man for halloween?"

"No," Peter despairs, "My suit's too good, you know? It'd be a dead giveaway."

"It looks like spandex," Tony points out.

Peter stares.

Raises an eyebrow.

Purses his lips.

"Mr. Stark," he says, in that _I love you but you're stupid rich and don't understand the world_ voice that Pepper always uses on him. Tony tries not to automatically pout at that, "I have an _AI_ in that suit. My web shooters are _fully functional_. My _eye masks_ adjust so that they filter light properly to my senses. Sometimes, if it's dark enough, the suit can _glow_."

"It's a beautiful suit," Tony says.

"Oh my god," Pepper whispers in the background, sounding like she's watching some sort of sitcom, except it's just Tony, pouting.

"It's the best suit," Peter reassures him, "I love it. I can't wear it."

"You should give up, Tony," Pepper says in the background, "He makes good points."

"But the _irony_!" Tony resists.

"I'd basically give away my identity," Peter says, long-suffering.

"That worked out okay for me, didn't it?" Tony asks.

A beat of silence.

And then, Pepper, sounding like she's trying very hard not to dump him off the side of the building, "You hearing yourself?"

"Point," Tony sighs, because when _doesn't_ she have one? "Okay. Fine. Whatever. You know, we have these weird pumpkin flavoured marshmallows that you would like because you're weird."

Peter lights up, "Really?"

"Yeah," Tony grins, "So Brenda from accounting, you know, the normal looking one—" This is honestly a good identifier because SI employees are _weird_ "—thought she was totally normal, right? Then one day, she comes in with this giant bag, saying she _made them all_ — I know, right? —So she _made them_ all because she was given some bones to make a piano frame for—"

Peter oohs and aahs in all the right places and Tony is happy and content, with this weird kid who dresses up as him for halloween and eats stupid pumpkin flavoured marshmallows (and actually enjoys them? _Why_ ) and gets food bank stuff instead of candy.

* * *

MJ is waiting for him by the time that he exits the bathroom, tapping at her phone and frowning at it with her nose scrunched up, that way she does when she's thinking about the inadequacy of others and the work that she'll have to pull in order to cover for them.

"Hey-o, MJ," Peter says, readjusting the shoulders of his cardboard Iron Man suit, "How's it looking?"

"Your driving skills are still terrible?" MJ asks, in that despairing, _I-already-know-the-answer-but-I-don't-like-it_ voice.

Peter grimaces, "Um."

"I thought so," MJ sighs. She's dressed in a tuxedo, a white mask fitted neatly over her face. Peter is still trying to guess what she is, and he has a feeling that if he guesses wrong, she'll never talk to him again. "It's okay. The current map will have to do."

The current map being a highly ambitious, _there is no way we can do this unless we perfectly carry it out just like we planned it_ route that makes Peter's knees shake.

He has a feeling that the actual carrying out of the mission will be a lot less high pressure than the dotted red lines and sticky notes with shortcuts make him think, but still, Peter doesn't really want to know how they'll carry it out.

(Unless they actually succeed. In which case, he'll take a moment to gape and wonder how they managed to pull such magic.)

"How are Ned and Flash?" Peter asks, rubbing the little LED arc reactor that he had made.

"Flash is changing in the van," MJ answers, jerking a thumb towards the general vicinity of the outside world, "Ned is waiting with him."

"Coolio," Peter bobs his head into a nod as they skitter toward the exit. (Well. _He_ skitters. MJ… MJs. That thing she does, where she does a mix between stomping and gliding? Yeah. _That_.) "You excited?"

She squints at him, as though to ask _did you seriously just ask that_?

Peter swallows, but does not give in. He will not say point. He will not give her that satisfaction.

MJ raises an eyebrow.

"Okay," Peter gives in grudgingly, "Point."

She gives a satisfied, subtle little dip of her chin, and then she's back to Default, chin raised and shoulders back, as though everything else is just an ant beneath her shoe.

Flash is sitting cross-legged on top of the van when they come out, dressed in a button up shirt and slacks, holding a cereal box with a knife through it in one hand, chatting excitedly with Ned, who's dressed up in heavy-looking silver and yellow armour.

Ned lights up when he catches sight of Peter, "Dude!" He exclaims, clapping his hands together, "You look great! Did Mr. Stark see it?"

"Yeah," Peter rolls his eyes, "Tried to tell me that it was terrible and needed improvement while also complimenting me and telling me that I did great in the same breath."

"Sounds like him," Ned sighs, a mix between starstruck and exasperated, "You look wicked."

"So do you," Peter holds up a fist and Ned bumps it. "You really went all-out."

"I got a bit lazy," Ned admits, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm just wearing my cosplay from comic con, actually."

"It looks great," Peter shakes his head, "Like the real deal."

"You think?" Ned beams, "It's Brigitte, from Overwatch."

"Okay, nerd," MJ moves forward to pat Ned's shoulder, "It's lame, but it's not bad."

Which is MJ for 'amazing effort, A+'.

Ned and Peter exchange amused glances.

And then Flash makes a little noise in the back of his throat, surprised and pleased and he exclaims, "You're Tuxedo Mask!", jabbing a finger at MJ, eyes lit up like he's been handed a basketful of candy.

MJ turns to Flash, and her gaze is cool, but Peter recognizes her nerd face. "Didn't expect you to be the one to point it out first," she muses, reappraising Flash.

Flash stares for a moment, arm still pointing, and then slowly, ducks down his head and looks sheepish, "Look, there's nothing wrong with liking Sailor Moon."

This should be the moment when one of them starts to crack up.

Instead, Ned asks, "Does this mean that Flash gets to join us for marathons, now?"

A beat.

Peter, decisively, " _Yes_."

MJ, amused, "He already joined us for the last four."

Flash, "Wait, is this, like, an official thing or—"

Ned, clapping his hands, "Cool. Now that we've got that figured out."

Flash, "Wait, I'm still—"

MJ, raising an eyebrow, "Did you bring my latte?"

Another beat.

Then, Peter, incredulous, "You don't even like lattes."

"I know," MJ says, pursing her lips.

"Wait, she doesn't?" Flash yelps, "Then why did I get a latte for her?"

Ned sighs, "You're not going to take my drink again, are you?"

MJ shrugs unapologetically, "You're the only one with a somewhat decent taste in drinks."

"I mean, it's true, but—"

"Wait, I take offence—" Flash protests.

"It's not _gross_ , it's just _different_ —" Peter doesn't even sound passionate, more like he's reciting lines.

MJ holds up a hand.

The three boys immediately stop.

"Flash, your taste in drinks is dull," MJ says, holding up one finger.

"There is nothing wrong with vanilla," Flash sulks, "It's a perfectly good flavour."

Ned winces, like he sees MJ's point.

"Peter," MJ scrunches up her nose, " _Peter_."

"I know," Peter sighs miserably.

"You ate fish with peanut butter."

"It's an acquired taste."

MJ stares at Peter.

Peter tries not to squirm.

Peer squirms.

Sighs.

"Yeah, alright, point."

"Thank you," MJ tilts her head, regally, as though her being right were never in doubt (which, honestly, isn't _wrong_ ), "So, moving on. This is our route for Halloween and…"

"Wait, Flash," Peter gasps, delighted, "You're a _cereal killer_!"

Another long pause.

MJ sighs.

"Dude," Ned says, "Did it take you this long to realize?"

Peter pouts, "Look, I was focused on your amazing armour."

"I would be offended," Flash says, "But Ned's costume is seriously cool."

"Aw, thanks, dude," Ned clears his throat and turns back to MJ, "So, route?"

"Right, so we'll start here and…"


	30. Chapter 30

The morning is quiet, slow. The sun hasn't come up yet when they stop by the sidewalk, Peter pulling out his phone to take a picture of a fallen leaf half covering a crumpled cigarette while Ned waits beside him, scarf pulled to his nose and hands jammed in his pockets.

"Dude," he says, when Peter picks up the cigarette and decides to hold it until they find a garbage can, "That's been in someone's mouth."

"It's not good to litter," Peter answers.

"Under someone's _foot_ ," Ned raises an eyebrow, shuddering a bit.

"It's the right thing to do," Peter continues, undeterred, and slips his phone back into his pocket.

Ned sighs as he moves after Peter, shaking his head, "You're too good for this world."

Peter lets out a short, surprised bark of laughter at that, and then grins at Ned, "Thanks, man."

"No," Ned narrows his eyes, "I mean it. Don't do that thing."

"What thing?"

"That—the _thing_."

"Dude."

"The—" Ned sighs, and waves his hands in the air, "That _thing_ that you do, where you act as if every nice thing that _you_ do is an ordinary nice thing that any decent person would do."

Peter quirks up an eyebrow, obviously amused. "It _is_ what any decent person would do, I think," he answers mildly.

"You see. That. _That_ ," Ned jabs a finger in Peter's general direction, narrowing his eyes, "That's what I'm talking about. No, Peter. Either not any decent person would do it or there are no decent people in the world aside from you."

"I'm pretty sure that's an over exaggeration."

"It's really not."

Peter laughs, small and crackly, a noise coming from the back of his throat, like he's taken some of the leaves underfoot between two fingers and rubbed them together. "You underestimate yourself," he answers lightly, fingers playing with the fraying bits of his backpack straps, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Don't make this about me," Ned crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, "This is not about me. This is about the fact that you think too well of people, and hold them up to your standards."

"My standards aren't that high," Peter hums.

"The problem is not your standards," Ned slings an arm over Peter's shoulders, narrowing his eyes, "It's the fact that you think that people live up to your standards when they actually don't."

"I don't do that."

Ned jabs a finger at himself, "What about me?"

"You live up to my standards just fine," Peter says, beginning to sound vaguely insulted, "You're a great guy, Ned."

"Case in point," Ned sighs, pulling away ever so slightly from Peter, shaking his head in mock disappointment, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You're too pure for this world."

"I thought that we were over this?"

"We should be. We _would_ be, if you were less insistent that humanity is inherently good."

"It is."

Ned stares. Inhales. Exhales. Shakes his head. " _Dude_."

"What?" Peter spreads out his hands, "What are we talking about? Humanity _is_ inherently good."

Ned narrows his eyes.

Thinks about it.

Visibly decides that it isn't worth the argument.

"Dude," he sighs, his form of white flag, "You have the new Pumpkin Spice hot chocolate from that weird cafe that MJ's mom's friend opened yet?"

"Oh, yeah," Peter lights up, "I know that you think that sort of stuff is gross, but hear me out—"

* * *

Peter is curled up against the arm of their couch, cup of water on the coffee table, head put down to rest, too awake to sleep but too weary to do much else but lie down, still in a manner that still unnerves her.

May is quiet as she walks up, but Peter hears her or detects her somehow all the same, moving his legs tighter against his chest to make room for her by his feet.

She curls her fingers in his hair, presses a kiss to his forehead, and hums, "How's it going, buddy?"

"Fine," Peter says, but it's a whisper and his voice is all crackly and low, the way it does when he isn't and knows that she knows, but still hasn't quite figured out how to put it in so many words, lying just beyond his grasp.

May hums, keeping a thumb against his temple, smoothing his hair from his forehead. It's smooth, no sweat or anything, but that means nothing, Peter has never been one to wake up in a cold sweat, even after his worst nightmares.

"You tired?"

"Not enough," he leans into her touch, eyes closed, weary and trying to rest even when sleep eludes him. He has school the next day, she knows, and hopes it won't affect him too badly.

"Mm," The world outside is dark, still, the night hanging heavy over the world like a weighted blanket, comforting and heavy and odd. "Wait 'til morning to talk?"

"Just a bad dream," Peter answers, pressing his hand against hers over his head, eyes still closed, shoulders still slack.

"You're fine?" May runs her fingers through his hair.

"'m fine," Peter agrees sleepily, and when he wakes in the morning, he's still curled into May's chest, warm, and nightmare long forgotten.

* * *

Peter finds Mr. Aaron crouched outside of Mrs. Joyce's apartment, hands on his knees as he scrolls through something on his phone, only glancing up when Peter nears, blinking a few times before he says, "Ah, Peter. Mrs. Joyce just went to pick up Miles from a club, they got stuck in traffic."

"I see," Peter says awkwardly, and shifts from side to side for a moment before sitting down, "So we're just going to, um, wait here?"

"They should be back soon," Mr. Aaron reassures Peter, a wry smile on his lips, "No problem. What's up?"

"Nothing," Peter answers automatically, playing with his fingers, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Mr. Aaron answers, a bit too quickly, and puts away his phone.

Maybe he's doing criminal stuff, Peter thinks. Then he thinks that he should probably arrest Mr. Aaron or something. But he likes Mr. Aaron, and he doesn't want to. Peter picks at the inside of his nails, frowning a bit. People are complicated.

Mr. Aaron nudges Peter's shoulder with his arm, raising an eyebrow when Peter starts a bit, "Seriously, kid, you look nervous. What's wrong? I won't bite, I promise."

Peter laughs nervously, "Nothing."

A beat, and then, a sigh, "Look, kid, I'm not trying to pry. But if you've got something eating at you, maybe I could help. A stranger's better than someone close, sometimes."

"You're not a stranger," Peter says automatically, because he's been at Mrs. Joyce's a few times now, and Mr. Aaron laughs a bit. "But, I mean," Peter hedges awkwardly, trying to find a way to word it properly, "If you, uh, don't mind…"

"I don't," Mr. Aaron reassures him.

Peter pulls his hands apart a bit and then goes back to playing with them, dragging his fingers over the bumps of his knuckles and intertwining his fingers, fidgeting and moving.

"People are cruel, sometimes," he says out loud, and it sounds like a betrayal of everything he stands for, but he plows on, "And it's—it's so easy to look at it as black and white, y'know? Good and bad. But people aren't like that. People are—they're—we're—more—more complicated. Sometimes good people do bad things, and sometimes bad people do good things. But then—then it makes you think, what makes a person good, or a person bad, or—what defines these sorts of things, y'know? And I get it, I do, that it's about the choices we make and all that but—but a lot of people I see, when they're given the obvious choice, they want to be good. But sometimes, when being good means going out of their way to see something that's ugly, that they don't want to see, when being good makes them miserable, they don't want to do it, and—"

He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to figure it out.

"I used to think that all people were good, in some way," Peter says, quietly, folding his hands together, "If you just—if you just gave them the chance, you know? But there's so much bad stuff, too, and people who do really bad things, and I don't—I don't know how I'm supposed see people, when everyone's so different."

There's a long, drawn out silence, and Peter examines the floor of the hallway, a dull, patterned rug that gives way when he presses a finger against it.

And then, Mr. Aaron says, quietly, "Isn't that a good thing? That everyone's different?"

"I guess," Peter shrugs, "It just—it makes things hard. Like, the line between someone like Mrs. Joyce and someone like Hitler—I can't tell how it's drawn. Like—does everyone start from the same place? Is it seriously just choices? Or is it that you're just bad or good from the second that you're born? I can't—" he frowns at his hands, "I can't tell."

"You can't control that stuff," Mr. Aaron says, "You just—you choose what you choose. And that's it."

"But what if it's not enough?"

"It'll never be enough, kid," Mr. Aaron answers, and his voice is soft, pliable, like Peter could take it and fold it like a rubber band, "No matter what you do, even if you had eternity, you can't stop the bad stuff from happening. Being bad, being good—it's all a part of just being human."

Peter picks at his pants, and scowls, "I wish people would just—be good. But then, that's not them being people, it's not—they're not being them, if it isn't their choice. And I—I'd choose free will over being good all the time," his gaze flickers to Mr. Aaron, "Does that make me a bad person?"

"There are no bad people," Mr. Aaron puts his phone on the ground next to him and stretches out his legs, "Just people, and the choices they make."

"What about someone like Hitler?" Peter presses the back of his head against the wall, "He chose to do all these bad things, and he's just—just a person?"

"People can't control people, kid," Mr. Aaron offers Peter a sympathetic glance, "They can offer options, but people always choose to do what they do. Hitler didn't control all of Germany. He didn't terrorize them into voting him into power. He gave them an option, to vote for him. He made promises. And it was Germans—the people who voted for him—who had a hand in the Holocaust."

Peter bites his thumb, "We were talking about it in class," he says, finally, "And the teacher's grandma lived in Nazi Germany. And she said—she said that she never felt safer, than she did, living there and then. Because Hitler got rid of pedophiles and rapists, too, the people that scared her. And he promised to make life better, and even though life was kind of scary, and there were guys with guns and people disappeared—she still believed him. He did a lot of good for those people, I guess, but he still—"

"He's still one of the greatest villains in history," Mr. Aaron agrees sombrely, "And no matter what good he did, it can't wipe out the bad."

"And there's just no line?" Peter asks, frowning, "No line separating him from anyone else?"

"Once you start to see a line," Mr. Aaron says, "It's, I think, harder to be good."

Peter is quiet, and then the elevator dings. Miles and Mrs. Joyce come out, chatting with each other, and Peter shoots a glance at Mr. Aaron, "Thanks," he says, under his breath, "I'll think about it."

Mr. Aaron nods, "No problem, kiddo," he replies.

Then they go and have dinner.


	31. Chapter 31

The world flashes before him, black and white spots dancing in his vision before there's the startling clarity of pain drawing him back as gravel slides through his back, a hand on his chest, Peter trying desperately to _breathe_ —

And the familiar whirr of the Iron Man suit, an odd, numb sort of lightness when the hand is taken away, Peter's breath stuttering in his chest even as the villain with awesome powers (wait, no, brain, not going in that direction) slams into a building opposite and Peter is left to whisper _so cool_ as Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow, amused, as he asks, "How we doing, kid?"

"Awesome," Peter squeaks instinctively, because, _hello, saved by Iron Man?_ This is, like, one step away from a super awesome super hero team up. Which is not happening. Because he would be super embarrassed to do that. But, y'know, just _if_ … yup, he's going to stop going down this thought train. "I mean. Ow. I'm in pain. Please help."

Laughter, exasperated and forced lightness, "C'mon, kid. Let's get you fixed up."

And then, Karen's voice, "Sending medical report to Iron Man suit."

"Oh, wait, you don't need to—"

"Report sent."

Peter groans, "Thanks, Karen."

"You're welcome," Karen agrees pleasantly. She's knows that Peter knows that she knows that it's sarcasm being used, but she's mean enough to act as though she doesn't know better. Peter would dislike her if he didn't love her so much. Urgh.

Mr. Stark whistles a bit, and then says, "Okay, good news, no long term damage or anything bad."

"Bad news?" Peter asks nervously, sitting up.

Mr. Stark winces, and his armour bleeds away a bit from his finger as he points and sighs, "That's a helluva lotta blood you've got there, kid."

Peter turns.

Sees the giant pool of blood.

Ah.

Right.

"Cool," He mutters, and then faints.

* * *

"I see that you're up, despite being told that you shouldn't be for another two hours," Pepper says, shooting Tony a stern look even as she pulls up Peter's medical report with a flick of her wrist, the hologram easily coming up, "Which is fine, of course. Tony, go get a bottle of water."

"But—"

"You've been worrying for the past hour, you can worry a little more," Pepper raises a pointed eyebrow.

Tony mumbles something and then kisses Pepper's cheek before scampering off, pouting at her the whole while.

Pepper shakes her head, but looks fond as she turns back to Peter, "So, your medical report is quite concise—" she shoots the hologram in front of Peter, who starts a bit before kind of gaping (okay, fine, totally gaping, no shame, this tech is _awesome_ ), "Mostly due to the fact that your genetics are a completely new and unexplored region. However, we were able to get a bit of data from today—don't worry, nothing inhumane or terrible, simply observation from recording the speed at which you healed, you weren't even touched except to pull out the gravel—"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Potts," Peter reassures her, "I trust you."

"A terrible decision, I'm sure," Pepper says drily, before adopting a somewhat surprised look, as though she hadn't completely expected to say that out loud, "Anyways, moving on. Christmas is coming up—"

Peter lights up, "Yes!"

Pepper shoots him an amused look, "And while we understand that your family background is Jewish—"

"It is?"

She raises an eyebrow, looking a cross between amused and an attempt at sternness, "Well, yes, but I'm aware you and May are atheists, of course—"

"We still celebrate Christmas," Peter says quickly, "Everything is _super_ cheap, and we like any excuse to treat ourselves."

"A wise decision, I'm sure," Pepper says, with all the patience of one who has spent years dealing with Tony and who understands that Peter doesn't even go up to Tony in terms of confusing babble-thought-trains, "And due to this, we thought it pertinent to invite you two to our private Christmas party on the 23rd. Our public one, of course, will be held on Christmas eve, however you weren't invited because that one is mostly held for—"

She purses her lips together, clearly scrounging for a polite word to use, and that is when Tony pops in, grinning crookedly as he passes Peter a glass of milk, "The media vultures. But we'll be having our own little fun without them, the night before."

"That sounds amazing, Mr. Stark," Peter says brightly, accepting the milk, "Thank you for the invitation!"

"No problem," Tony makes an aborted movement to pat Peter's shoulder that awkwardly turns into a head pat. Well. Awkward for Peter. Not Tony. Tony's having the time of his life. "How's the injuries?"

"How are the injuries," Pepper says, shooting Tony a Look.

Tony makes a face at her, and she raises an eyebrow. Tony pouts, and when that obviously doesn't work, moves forward to peck her on the cheek.

Pepper accepts the cheek kiss with a thoughtful sort of tilt of her head, and Peter does not understand their relationship but it's alright because they, apparently, do.

He looks between the two of them, and then, deciding that he has a brief moment before attention turns back to him, wheels around and takes off his shirt.

Unfortunately, Tony and Pepper catch the movement, and Tony wheels around, demanding, "What the heck, kid?"

Peter squints over his shoulder, "Wow, I can't believe my injuries aren't totally healed yet."

"Please put your shirt back on," Pepper says with such long-suffering that it makes Peter wonder if she's dealt with having to say this multiple times.

"But I want to see my injuries!" Peter protests.

Tony scrunches up his nose, "You don't need to take off your shirt for that." He flicks his wrist and a replica of Peter pops up in neon blue. "Just do this," he pulls his thumb and fingers apart and the replica zooms in, "and this," he flicks his wrist again, and the replica spins, "to control it."

"Cool," Peter breathes, feeling a bit giddy as he examines the replica. "And this is me?"

"FRIDAY's always scanning everyone in the building," Tony says proudly.

"Which is not creepy at all," Pepper says with the sort of amusement that one has when they're saying something they truly believe, but want to exaggerate it for comedic purposes.

Tony pouts at her, which makes Peter think that Pepper's teased him about this before.

(Wow. He is getting very invested in their relationship. Which isn't bad, of course, since they're married and they'll be with each other till death do they part, but y'know.)

"It's not creepy," Peter reassures Tony, "It's kinda cool, actually."

" _Thank you_ ," Tony beams, "So, how's the back? Level of pain? Don't worry, FRIDAY's got more in her database than any human doctor."

* * *

She's understandable upset when he returns home, hands on her hips and a scolding on her tongue but when she catches sight of the look on his face, she understands (she always does).

May is quiet as he rushes to her and she pulls him into a hug, careful of his injuries, one hand on his arm and the other wrapped around the back of his neck as she whispers into his cheek, "How we doing, kiddo?"

"We're fine," he says, burying his face into the crook of her neck, like when he was a little kid and went to sleep between her and Ben after a nightmare. "I'm fine, May, I promise. I'm okay, it's okay, they're all scabbed over, the injuries should be gone before the week's done."

She buries her face in his hair, her forehead solid and the curve of her nose soft, "The news made it look really bad. I'm sorry, I was working and I didn't see until after and—"

"It's okay," he repeats, and he doesn't want to move, even though it's ridiculous, just standing here in the doorway, hugging her, but he could stay here forever, with May like this, and it's stupidly childish how safe she makes him feel but it's a good feeling all the same.

May's silent for a moment, contemplative, resting her cheek on the top of his head, and then, shakily, she laughs, "Does that make the top ten of scariest moments?"

"Are you kidding?" he laughs, and it sounds a bit shaky, too, but she doesn't call him out on it. "After watching the disaster adaptation of Howl's Moving Castle and seeing my worst fears realized, I fear nothing."

"Fair enough," May says, and when she moves away the worry has been smoothed out, bled by the knowledge and certainty of Peter's safety. She presses a hand against his cheek and smiles at him, "What kind of night do we want to have? Book? Movie? A normal dinner?"

"Whatever you want," Peter says, and she rolls her eyes but it's okay.

His back is messed up, May's a bit worried, but he knows that it'll work out, so here, right now, he is content.

* * *

"Dude," Ned says, bouncing a rubber ball against the frame of his bed, "Do you think that it'll leave a scar?"

"I don't know," Peter says, squinting at his back, "I don't know how I feel about that, honestly. I mean, for one thing, a scar's kind of hard to explain. But for another thing…"

"Scars are hella cool," Ned agrees, explaining what Peter can't fully grasp the words for.

Peter jabs a finger at Ned, nodding vaguely, " _Exactly_. It's, like, badass to have a scarred back, right? But I also don't want to have a scar. I want normal skin, y'know?"

"I know," Ned nods, "But, like, I only have one scar, and that's because I tripped and injured my knee before my scab from tripping a few days earlier had healed. It's a super lame story, all it gets is comments about how clumsy I am."

"Even if the story is lame, at least the scar looks cool," Peter points out, to which Ned tilts his head and says thoughtfully _point_. "But I mean, a scarred up back looks super cool _and_ it'll be hard to explain."

"You could say that you fell into a bucket of rocks as a child," Ned hums, "I had a cousin who fell in face first when she was, like, seven, and she has this wicked scar on her face that makes her look like she's always crying from her left eye."

"First of all, that's terrifying, why would you leave a seven year old unattended, second of all—" Peter pauses, "Wait, no, seriously, why did she fall face first into a bucket of rocks?"

"She was a terrifying child," Ned says, staring off into the distance, as though that explains everything. It explains literally nothing but Peter knows that if he prods, Ned will just confuse him even further. His family has weird stories like that.

"Okay. Cool. Alright," Peter squashes down his growing feeling of curiosity, "So, um, I fell into a bucket of rocks?"

"It's not as bad if you say that you did it as a child?" Ned answers uncertainly, "But also, in what circumstance would someone see your scarred back and not have your trust?"

Peter opens his mouth. Closes it.

Holds up a finger. Lowers it.

And comes to the realization that, "Oh man, you're right. Even if it did leave a scar, we would never need to explain it to anyone who wasn't in the know."

Ned spreads out his hands, "Bam. Safe."

Peter nods, "Safe."

It doesn't leave a scar. Peter is grateful because it scars aren't cool.

(Well. A little. Kind of badass, right? Ahem. No. Right. He is not going to get a scar, because scars mean bad injuries and bad injuries are not good. Yup. Yeah. No scars at all.)


	32. Chapter 32

He wakes to the sound of clattering in the kitchen, the world outside still dark even as Tony stirs.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the nothing slowly taking shape in the form of blocky forms lined in the pale blue light that bleeds through the living room's blinds, and Tony considers staying here, on the sofa, where he's warm and comfortable, but ultimately, his decision has already been made.

He's moving before he can second guess himself, taking a moment to wrap his blanket around himself as he plods into the kitchen (despite how comfortable it is, the blanket is undoubtedly hideous, so he forces himself not to look).

Peter blinks at him, rumpled and bleary eyed, as though he can't quite attach Tony's face to reality, and then he blinks again and he's bobbing his head up and down, nodding, like he's finally connected the dots.

"Morning," Tony says absentmindedly, watching Peter's fingers fumble through his hot chocolate routine, spooning the mix into milk in a saucepan and scatter-mindedly moving to retrieve the marshmallows.

Peter squints at Tony, like he's unimpressed, and says, "It's not late enough to be morning," which, fine, is certainly _one_ way to look at it.

Tony casts a glance at the kitchen clock, pale green digits glowing on the oven, which unrepentantly read _2:27_.

Well then.

"I don't suppose I can get a coffee?" Tony pulls up a chair and sprawls over the counter, head tucked in the crook of his elbow, the dials on the dishwasher digging into his ribs.

Peter jabs a finger in Tony's nose and glares, which Tony supposes is a good enough answer seeing as he can very clearly tell what Peter's answer is.

"I don't get coffee but you get hot chocolate?" Tony sulks into his forearms, "Hardly seems fair."

"You can have some hot chocolate too," Peter says, unimpressed, and his fingers shake a bit as he opens the bag of marshmallows.

Tony watches Peter for a while, moving in a mass of energy, fingers drumming on the counters and stirring the hot chocolate and making sure it doesn't burn, wondering if he should bring it up.

Maybe Peter notices, or maybe he just feels like talking, because he asks softly, "Did I wake you up?"

"Maybe," Tony shifts a bit so that the dishwasher dials aren't cutting so much into his chest, "It's fine, though. What's up?"

Peter's quiet for so long that for a moment, Tony thinks that he isn't going to answer, and then he says, voice a bit hoarse, like he's been thinking about it for a while but hasn't quite figured out yet how to put it into words, "You know how our choices define us?"

Tony knows this painfully well. "Yeah."

"Well, what if—" Peter bites the inside of his cheek, "What if we make a bad choice? One that—one that's selfish?"

Tony tries to think of what Fengchi or Pepper would say. "Is this a bad kind of selfish?" He asks, "Or is this just you taking care of yourself for once?"

"Like, a really bad kind of selfish." Peter pops up onto the kitchen counter, sitting on the edge so that his legs dangle over the edge, the heels of his hands keeping him steady. "I had this dream, just now, or, this, um, nightmare, I guess. There was this zombie apocalypse—"

"That's scary," Tony notes.

Peter shakes his head, "That wasn't the scary part," he stirs the hot chocolate, "So I was in this building. It was already ready, I guess, and there were protocols in place for when the zombies came in. There was an upstairs and a downstairs, and the downstairs was, like, zombie-proof and super safe, and the upstairs was alright but not as safe, you know? And I wanted to—I wanted to go downstairs. I went upstairs, but when I learned that it wasn't as safe, I thought, for a second—can I fit downstairs? And it was—it was so selfish and stupid, I mean—"

Peter reaches over to turn off the heat and pulls the saucepan off the heat. Dumps in about a spoonful of marshmallows and doesn't move anymore, just sort of staring at the saucepan, like he needs an excuse to avoid eye contact with Tony.

"There were these kids, hiding with me? Like, seven year olds. And I—I wanted to just leave them alone there. In the dream, May hid us, but the zombies were coming really fast and they were, like, intelligent in that dream, actually they weren't really zombies, they were like shape shifters, and they were hunting us, so she went to lead them away from us and I just—she sacrificed herself for us and I wanted to go downstairs and be safe there. I was willing to leave these kids, I didn't even _think_ about them, I just thought of myself and—" he's still not looking at Tony, "That's really selfish, right? A really _bad_ kind of selfish. And I chose that. I thought of that. I—"

"You stayed upstairs," Tony cuts in. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Because the zombies came too fast," Peter shakes his head, "If they hadn't come, if I had the chance to go down, maybe I would have—"

"So you don't know," Tony says.

Peter nods, small, slight.

Tony hums a bit and tries to think of the best way to approach it. Finally, all he can come up with is, "It was just a dream, kid."

"But it was _my_ dream. I thought of it. I was conscious, in that dream, I _thought_ about going downstairs, it wasn't like I was just watching it unfold, I was thinking as it happened—"

"But it didn't happen," Tony stands, and moves to get a mug. "Kid, I—why was it a nightmare, for you?"

Peter chews on his lower lip and he glances at Tony as he mumbles, "Because I didn't—because I still don't know what choice I would have made, in the end."

"Because it scared you, that you might have been the type of person to abandon everyone else in a pinch?" Tony sets down the mug.

Peter nods, mute.

 _God_ , Tony's going to have to get emotionally vulnerable, isn't he.

"Here's the truth," Tony's voice is far softer than he could like, but he can't summon the strength to make it any louder, any stronger, "The honest to god truth. You remember New York? The invasion?"

Peter nods. He didn't need to, but he does, and it comforts Tony a bit, ridiculous as that is.

"There was this moment, in space, when I fell," Tony closes his eyes, "When I thought that I was going to die, and I wished that it didn't have to be me. And that sounds so fucking selfish, I know, but I did. I wanted to see Pepper again. I wanted to work in my lab again. I wanted—I didn't want to feel it, when I hit the ground." He opens his eyes, and Peter's staring right at him, eyes so wide and hand still by his sides. "Everyone's scared, in the face of death. But I've seen you make the decision, over and over, to do what you knew was the right thing, even when times got tough, and that's—that's what makes you a hero."

"What if I don't do it?" Peter's voice is small, "What if times get tough and I run away? What if I get scared and instead of going on in spite of it, I just give up?"

"If that time ever comes," Tony meets Peter's eye, "I won't blame you. I swear. If you run, when you stop, we'll still be here, waiting for you."

"But it's selfish," Peter digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, voice cracking, "It's the wrong thing to do."

"It's the _human_ thing to do," Tony moves forward, presses a hand against Peter's back, "Kid, when we were up in Titan, when we were fighting Thanos, if you face something like that and want to run, that's honestly what I would want for you. When you face something that seems unbeatable, and you want to run, I want you to run. But you won't. You're stupidly stubborn and selfless and have a ridiculous sense of duty. And if you lose a bit of that? I'd honestly be grateful. May would probably sleep better at night knowing that you weren't out fighting psychos. Fear keeps you safe. You're not a robot, Peter. You have choices. And either way—whatever you choose—I have faith that it'll be the right thing for you to do."

Peter buries his face into Tony's shoulder, and he doesn't quite cry, but he seems on the verge of it, like he would if he tried to talk.

Tony doesn't know what else to say, so he props his chin on top of his kid's head and just kind of keeps it there, his arm wrapped around Peter's shoulders.

He isn't sure how long they stay there, silent, thinking, but eventually Peter pulls away and says softly, "Thanks, Mr. Stark."

Tony squeezes Peter's shoulder. _No problem_ or _you're welcome_ feel wrong, like they don't quite fit here, so he says, "I don't care if you're Spider-man or not. If you choose to get rid of the costume tomorrow, I'll still be camped on your couch sometime next week."

Peter's chin wobbles, but he manages to keep it together as he grins and says, "Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Stark?"

"I'm just saying," Tony holds up his hands, "If you want to put it on hold until you've graduated University and started working at Stark Industries—"

"It's a plot," Peter laughs, a bit weakly, "You and May are working together to try and get me to quit. Trying to make me quit after a heart-to-heart? That's low."

"What can I say," Tony smirks, "You can leave the streets to Daredevil, can't you?"

"Daredevil looks after Hell's Kitchen," Peter points out, "I look after Queens."

"It's all New York, isn't it?" Tony groans, "Or better yet, let the cops handle it."

"Mr. _Stark_ ," Peter says, scandalized, and after a beat, he asks, "What if it really is the wrong choice? What if—what if I could have saved someone's life, but I chose to hide instead?"

Tony stares at his hands. Glances at Peter. And then, wearily, "I spent more than a decade building weapons to kill people. No matter what happens, no matter what choices you make, you always have new choices, every second, every day. No matter what terrible things you do, you can always turn that around. You have second chances. And third chances. And fourth chances. And you'll keep getting new chances."

"So no matter what," Peter stares someone vaguely beyond Tony, "I can choose to be good?"

"Things aren't black and white," Tony squeezes Peter's hand, "It isn't always good or bad. Sometimes, it's just the best choice you can make at the time. And that's—that's okay. It's going to be okay, kid."

Peter squeezes his hand, and then, smiling a bit, "Okay."

Peter drinks his hot chocolate and they devolve into an analysis of Huxley's _Brave New World_. Or, rather, Peter analyzes it and Tony occasionally voices his thoughts, and Peter acts like he's super intelligent despite the fact that Tony has no idea what Huxley's original meaning was.

It's ridiculous and stupid and if you'd asked him a decade ago, Tony would never have thought that he'd be crammed in a tiny apartment kitchen with a teenager, analyzing literature of all things.

But this is the life he's chosen, and the life he loves, and for now, this is the best choice he could have possibly made.


	33. Chapter 33

"Hey, man," Ned rolls over from his spot on the top bunk so that his head pokes out upside down at Peter, "You sure that you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Peter says into his pillow, and then, rolling around so that he faces Ned properly, "Why?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just," Ned frowns, "You don't usually sleep on the bottom bunk unless something's up."

Peter would argue, but given that Ned has known him since he was four or something, Ned's probably right. "That obvious?" he sighs.

"Well, not obvious," Ned hedges, "But, like, dude, I've known you since we were, what, four?"

"Right," Peter says, and, there's something about the way that the word comes out, sort of wrinkled and quiet, that makes him think drat, Ned's right. "It's fine. How about you?"

"We're not talking about me," Ned narrows his eyes at Peter, "We talked about me, like, last week."

"It's been two weeks, at least," Peter protests.

"No, two weeks ago was the Denim Incident, remember?"

"Oh," Peter winces at the memory, "Right."

"See, that," Ned jabs a finger at Peter, "That's just more proof that something's up, dude. Talk to me. Or your therapist. I don't care. You need to go back to the top bunk."

"You know, if you wanted the bottom bunk, you could have just said so," Peter points out.

"Not the point," Ned pauses, and then, begrudgingly, "Not the whole point. You've been in, like, zombie mode all week. Remember when MJ threw her eraser at you in math and you didn't even notice?"

"That never happened," Peter furrows his eyebrows.

"Point," Ned says.

"Oh," Peter says awkwardly.

"Yeah," Ned stares, like he's expecting Peter to just spill. Wait. Yes. That is exactly what is happening. That's exactly what should be happening.

Hm. Maybe Peter is kind of out of it.

"Do you want to switch first?" Peter asks.

Ned nods, "Please."

Peter laughs a bit, but it comes out sort of awkward, so he stops, and then he realizes that he's overthinking it. He momentarily thinks about laughing again, so it won't be so awkward, but that's very irrational and it would probably make things weirder. More weird. Whatever.

They switch, Ned tossing his blanket and pillow in Peter's face (he likes the flat one, for some reason, says something about the big, fluffy pillow being 'bad for his posture' which, why) and Peter kind of just zombie-ing his way up and letting Ned be the MVP as he passes the stuff up to Peter.

There's a sort of silence when they shift to get themselves comfortable, Ned coughing a bit and Peter knocking his head on the ceiling by accident, and them just sorting out the beds in general, before Ned says, from below Peter, "Alright, man. Out with it."

The room is kind of dark, now that Peter notices. Not, like, crazy dark, because he has those glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. Just kind of. Like if he were looking for something, it wouldn't be super easy to find.

It's a weird observation and it has nothing to do with what's going on right now, so Peter forces his attention back to Ned.

And he doesn't know how to—how to put it in words. Just that it's kind of foggy. Kind of weird.

"It's sort of—sort of like dissociating?" He bites his lower lip, "But—but it's not? Because I'm freaking out, too. I'm worried about failing my courses or whatever or that I'll never learn anything and it's like—stuff just doesn't get through my head. It's just—I hear it and I process it, and then I just. Forget. But not fully? Like when you have a test and you remember enough that you think that you don't have to study but then it turns out you dohave to study, like you know enough but not enough? But it's like—it's like that for everything and—"

He rolls over so that he's lying on his side, and stares at his door, at the dim green light, faded against the off-white.

"Sorry, dude," Peter whispers, "Forget it. I'm just holding until the break comes, then I'll be fine."

Ned is quiet, that thoughtful sort of quiet, Peter hopes, thinks, is fairly sure of, and then he asks, "What can I do to help?"

Ned's voice sounds kind of strange, in the dark, disembodied, sort of comforting, sort of odd, and Peter imagines his face lit a little green by the star lights on his ceiling, like those faces on the green computer screens in those old movies.

"I don't know," Peter pulls his blanket a bit tighter over his shoulders, "I—I'm okay."

"Okay, okay?" Ned asks.

Peter is quiet for a moment, debating internally how to answer Ned, and that's answer enough, Ned knows him too well, so there's the sound of shifting blankets below him and then a sigh.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Peter closes his eyes. They have school the next day. It's late. "No," he says, and settles for the more positive reasons for them to end this conversation, "I'll feel better in the morning."

And when he wakes, it lingers a bit in his chest, thick and uncertain.

But there's also a sureness, that even if the whole world burns and he fails and everything goes wrong, somehow, it'll be alright in the end.

He kisses May's cheek and hangs off Ned's shoulders and he's still a bit stretched, still a bit wane, and Ned can see it, he knows, because Ned holds his hand on the way to school while he plays some game one-handedly on his phone, but it's alright.

"Hey, man," Ned says before they part for class, "You sure you'll be alright?"

Peter isn't sure that he's alright now. Or in the near future. Or even before the semester ends. But, eventually… "Yeah," he says, and there's a weird, zen sort of calm to it. "I'll be fine. Thanks, man."

Ned nods absentmindedly, and they separate, and Peter is okay.

* * *

"Congratulations," MJ says flatly, sitting down across from Peter during lunch, nose wrinkled as she gives him a once-over, "You're officially wearing the grossest sweater I've ever seen."

Peter squints down at his sweater, a neon-lime sweater with blue and yellow fair-isle knit, a patch with a cartoon drawing of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer sewn onto his right shoulder and a christmas tree patch sewn over his chest. "I like it," he says, vaguely insulted.

"No, she's right," Flash winces as he sits down next to Peter (he hasn't sat with MJ since the Fanta Incident), "Your sweater looks gross and you needed to pitch it in the trash, like, before it was made."

"It's bright and cheerful," Peter grumbles, rubbing his knuckles over the tree patch, "I think that it looks very festive."

"There's festive," MJ points her plastic fork at Peter, a pained look wrinkling her forehead, "and then there's that shade of green."

"I like this shade of green," Peter says, because Peter likes basically every shade of every colour except that one barf green and that one off-mustard yellow. Mustard he can like. Off-mustard is offensive.

"You like every colour save two shades of green and yellow," Flash says, because he's perceptive like that, looking like he wants to grab Peter by the shoulders and rattle away all his optimism.

"It's disgusting," MJ sounds her form of agreement, pursing her lips together.

"I'm getting in the Christmas spirit!" Peter insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

MJ looks decidedly unimpressed as she raises an eyebrow, "Isn't your background Jewish?"

"No. Yes! Why does everyone keep asking me about that? I don't have to be Christian to celebrate Christmas. It's inspired by the Roman festival Saturnalia, anyway, so it should be obsolete. It has no religious ties."

"Except it does," Flash eats one of his fries, makes a face, and then hands Peter his fries, "Hey, you like cafeteria fries, right?"

Peter grabs them and pops one in his mouth by way of answer, "Thanks."

"No problem," Flash looks slightly green even as Peter hands over his spinach and cheese. "You know, there's no definitive proof that Saturnalia and Christmas are tied. That's just what some historians think."

"Not the point," Peter jabs a fry at Flash in what's meant to be a pointed fashion but ends up being kind of sad when the fry droops right over, "Point is, I can be festive. Stop judging me."

"Hey, man, I'm not doing any judging," Flash raises his eyebrows along with his hands, and jerks his head towards MJ, "She's the one doing all of the judging."

"Trying to use me as a scapegoat?" MJ cups her hands around her hands and boos, "Coward."

"I won't deny it," Flash agrees amiably, finger-gunning at MJ, who looks mutinous at Flash's positive attitude, undoubtedly somehow gained through Peter's terrible influence. "If being a coward keeps my life good, then life is good."

"That makes no sense," Peter points out.

"Shush," Flash picks up a fry and feeds Peter, "Eat your fries and let me live my life."

Peter shoots Flash an unimpressed look, but stays silent. Likely because he's eating and won't talk with food in his mouth, but Flash can pretend that it's for other reasons.

MJ props her chin on her hands, "Where's Ned?"

"Sick," Peter grimaces, "He texted it to me and then didn't text anything else, so you know that it's bad."

"Either that, or he was working on a project again," Flash adopts a distant look, "I still don't understand how he works with legos so fast."

"Sleep deprivation and way too much patience," Peter yawns.

MJ shoots him a Look, "Speaking from experience?"

Peter tries to sound innocent, "No?"

Shit. He did not sound innocent at all.

"That did not sound believable at all," Flash says, very unhelpfully, in Peter's own totally not biased completely objective opinion.

Peter puts his hand over Flash's mouth without looking. Well. His nose. And then he shifts his hand down until it's over Flash's mouth. Ha. Nailed it.

"The peanut gallery can stop talking now," he says, still not looking at Flash.

Flash presses his wAY TOO COLD fingers on Peter's neck and tickles him which.

"UnfAiR," Peter protests as he falls off the cafeteria seat, giggling, "stop, stop, stOP, ohmy—stop, I'm going to die—"

"Say uncle," Flash says, moving down to Peter's armpits where Peter is very ticklish and he needs to stop now and—

"Uncle!" Peter gasps, rolling onto his stomach to try and quell the attacks, "Stooop!"

Flash, gracious tyrant that he is, stops, and stands up, smirking as he presses his hands on his hips. "I have felled you in battle," he says, "but I will show mercy."

"My thanks, gracious lord," Peter bows, pressing his forehead to the back of Flash's hand.

They probably would have continued until it got too ridiculous for either of them to keep a straight face, but MJ cuts in, raising her eyebrow, "You boys done flirting yet?"

Peter sulks, "I wouldn't flirt with Flash. He doesn't like my sweater."

"I wouldn't flirt with anyone who would wear a sweater as hideous as that," Flash retorts, and they laugh at each other.

When they're done, MJ examines her nails, "But seriously, dude, lose the sweater."

Peter pulls a face at her, "I love this sweater and there is nothing that you can do to get rid of it."

"I will get you that TARDIS sweater that you've been drooling over," MJ narrows her eyes.

Peter brightens, "Really?"

"To replace that monstrosity?" MJ narrows her eyes, "Yes."

"No," Peter presses a hand over his sweater, "I like this sweater."

"It's so hideous, though."

"Ugly Christmas sweaters are a thing!"

"But they're usually not… so… ugh, ugly."

"That's the whole point."

"Take it off."

"Nooo."

The rest of the lunch goes mostly like this: MJ making offers to buy Peter clothing that he has previously expressed interest in to replace the garish sweater, Peter refusing, Flash being the charming peanut gallery.

By the time lunch is over, Peter has still refused to give up the sweater, and to this day, MJ still considers it her greatest failure.

Flash, for his part, is amused by MJ and still vaguely disgusted by Peter's sweater.

Peter?

Peter is not giving up this sweater and you can fight him if you think otherwise.

* * *

"'Sup, loser," MJ flops down next to Peter on the gym mat, squinting around the room, "The others here yet?"

"Ned is helping out with the tech people back there," Peter points at the hole in the wall behind them, "And Flash is getting snacks."

"Snacks here?" MJ wrinkles her nose, "I would have thought better of you."

"Not here," Peter mimics MJ's expression, "He's going to the convenience store down the street to get chips. I asked for dill pickle."

"Only you," MJ rolls her eyes, "Let me guess, Flash wanted original?"

"No, he was on board for dill pickle," Peter tucks his chin onto the palm of his hand, "Are you excited for the movie?"

MJ raises an eyebrow, which is her attempt at asking when do I ever get excited but comes across more like I am excited but I'm not going to show it because my face isn't expressive. "I'm here, aren't I?" she asks blandly, head cocked to the side.

Yup. Peter's totally fluent in MJ's facial expressions.

MJ is squinting at him, which means he's probably making that face that Flash dubs as the 'weirdly victorious' expression. Peter quickly tries to school his face into something normal, but judging from MJ's flat look, he has failed.

Oh well.

"It's been a while since we've come to a school movie night," Peter says, trying to fill in the awkward silence before MJ decides to ask him what he was thinking about. (He told Ned that he could read his face once and Ned spent the next week asking him whose face he was reading whenever he had a book in hand.) "Were you here for the last one?"

"Yeah," MJ cackles, "Flash's face last year was total inspiration."

Peter tries to digest this with the proper mix between trepidation and awkwardness, but mostly ends up biting back laughter when he imagines the face that Flash would make if MJ told him that. "I… see."

MJ smirks at him and Peter does his best not to fidget. "Don't worry, I'm not drawing this year. I've heard that the animation was really polished."

Peter kind of wants to ask if MJ's interested in animation, but he's kind of scared of what kind of answer MJ will give, seeing as she has a 10-year plan to world domination. (Or at least, he thinks that she does? It may be that she was joking, now that he comes to think of it.)

"So, you're interested in animation?" Peter asks before he overthinks everything.

"Not in a professional sense," MJ answers, which means that she does in a non-professional sense, Peter thinks. But what does that entail? Does it mean that she wants to animate something for fun? Does she mean that she does animate things? Or is it just that she appreciates it?

"Hey, losers," there's something cold against his forehead, and Flash grins at Peter for a moment before adopting a vaguely terrified expression and he says weakly, "Oh, hi, MJ. I didn't see you there."

"I know," MJ says primly, taking the bottle of water from Flash's hands and screwing it open.

"That's mine!" Flash squeaks.

MJ looks Flash in the face, tips back the bottle, and starts chugging.

"You don't even like water," Flash says mournfully, handing a bottle of Fanta to Peter, "Are you seriously doing this just to spite me?"

Peter snickers, "That's really petty, MJ."

MJ pulls the water away and gasps for air for a moment before jabbing a finger at Peter, "I do it for satisfaction, and I'm getting it."

"Petty satisfaction," Flash says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Satisfaction is satisfaction," MJ grins at him, "You can't have my Sprite."

"But you drank my water," Flash complains, "You know, I paid for these. I don't have to give you guys anything."

"Whoa," Ned slides next to Peter, "What did you guys just ruin for me?"

"Nothing," Peter sulks.

"Everything," Flash hands Ned his lemonade, "You should ditch these two and go rule the world or something."

"The world is too hard," Ned accepts his lemonade graciously, "But maybe the underworld. Easier for hackers, right?"

"Totally," Flash held up MJ's Sprite.

Ned clicked their bottles together.

"Dangerous living," MJ clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. "Ruling the underworld? How long will you last?"

"Not long," Flash agrees, opening MJ's Sprite, "But for the fact that one of our best friends would be ruling the world."

"Flattery will get you anywhere," MJ preens.

"Nowhere," Peter shakes his head.

MJ ignores him, "Hey, Ned, if you're here, does that mean that the movie's starting?"

Ned blinks a few times, and then, nodding, "Yeah, in the next few minutes or—"

The lights turn off.

"—Or now," Ned says, vainly attempting to talk over Flash's muffled laughter.

Incredibles 2 starts with bright music and colourful animation and their conversation dies. Peter tucks his head onto Flash's shoulder and MJ finds a way to loop her legs over his, using Ned's shins as a pillow.

His legs are numb by the time that intermission comes and he's pretty sure that they spilled some of their chips but it's a fun movie and his friends are here and what else could he really want?

* * *

"The doctors say he'll wake up before the day's done," Tony says, rocking on his heels as he peers at May.

May shoots him a weary smile, and gestures for him to sit. After fidgeting a bit in place, Tony nods and moves forward to sit down in the wooden chair next to Peter's bed. It's cold, and Tony wonders if May ever sat there, or if she immediately went to sit by Peter on the bed, to be as close as she could be.

"The kid fights aliens and criminals," May cards his fingers through Peter's hair, perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, "this was bound to happen."

"I know," Tony answers quietly, hands folded in his lap, "But knowing that ahead of time doesn't make it any easier when it does happen, does it?"

May closes her eyes, thumb stilling on Peter's temple. "No," she answers wryly, "I suppose not. But you can't blame yourself, you had people to save."

Tony plays with his hands, picking at his palms, and he sighs, "I know" in a voice of one who doesn't, fully, but intellectually understands. "I just—he's so young. And I keep coming up with what could go wrong, worst case scenarios, over and over, and—"

"It's not your fault," May repeats, and Tony falls silent, head bowed forward. She imagines that if someone were to flick his ear right now, his neck would just snap and his head would fall off like a golf ball from the tee.

"Do you ever wish—" Tony licks his lips, "Do you ever wish that he weren't so good? That he didn't feel this sense of duty, to make things right?"

May is silent for so long that Tony begins to wonder if she'll ever respond, and then she laughs self-deprecatingly, "It's selfish, isn't it? We always want people like Peter in the world, people who are just good and are always trying to be, but I just—when you know someone like that, someone who's so stupidly selfless, all you want is for them to be a little more selfish. Just—just a little. Enough that they prioritize themselves, you know?" She chews on her lower lip, "Ben was like that, too. That was why I loved him, I think. But then—then it got him killed. And then I found out that Peter was Spider-man, and all I could think was that he was just like Ben. So selfless, and in the end, it'd kill him."

"It might not," Tony says, and he isn't sure if it's for May's benefit or his own that he says that. "He's got a lot of people looking out for him. He won't be doing this alone."

"I know," May closes her eyes, "I know. I'm not doubting you, Tony."

"It's not irrational, to be worried."

May cards her fingers through Peter's hair again and sighs, "You heroes. Always trying to help someone and never taking the time to help yourselves."

Tony stares at his feet, at his fancy dress shoes and the black socks peeking out from beneath his pant leg. "The world is bigger than just me," he finally says, as though that explains anything.

May snorts and shakes her head, "Of course that's how you'd try to justify it," she rolls her eyes. "It's okay to be selfish, you know."

Tony smiles at her, wry and crooked, and answers, "I'm here, aren't I?"

"And this is being selfish?"

The smile becomes less wry, more charming, as Tony says, "I'm here with two of my favourite people, after all."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," May claims, though a smile pulls at the edges of her lips.

Tony hums, and they both turn to Peter. "Would he have given up?" Tony asks, quietly, "If it weren't for Germany?"

May's eyes trace Peter's face, as though the answer lies there, and thens she laughs, "He jumped in front of a bus and caught it with his bare hands without knowing if he could survive or even do it, Tony. You tell me."

Tony laughs at that, "I guess not, then."

"No," May agrees, "It's not necessarily a bad thing. He's done a lot of good. He'll continue to do a lot of good."

"Well, sure," Tony says, "Doesn't make it any less scary when he jumps into a fight."

"No," May repeats, humming a bit, "It doesn't."

Tony taps his fingers on his knee, and then, lightly, "Bet you didn't expect this when you signed up to be a parent."

May laughs, "Definitely not. I was expecting normal stuff, you know? How to tie a tie, how to ask someone out, how to do homework. Easy stuff. Things that seem silly in retrospect. Instead I get the kid who would probably volunteer to be Atlas, if need be. Some days I think he's wiser than I am."

"That'll never happen," Tony reassures her.

"Maybe," May tucks a stray hair behind her ear, "What I mainly wish is that he didn't have to get hurt all the time. Other than that—so long as I knew that he was safe—I think I'd be alright with anything that he chose to do."

"No parent likes seeing their child get hurt," Tony murmurs.

May brushes her thumb over Peter's knuckles, "I wish you could love all the bad things away. That it would be so easy. That so long as you loved them long enough and hard enough—that only good things could happen."

Tony doesn't know how he could respond to that, so he doesn't, just looks at Peter and then at May, understanding it a bit but not enough. "You can't love the bad away," he says, eventually, "But you can be there when it happens. And—I think—that's better, in some ways."

May smiles at him, and, reaching over to squeeze his hand, whispers, "Thanks, Tony."

He squeezes back, and musters up a smile.

(He wishes he could will away the way that May's forehead creases when she looks at Peter. Wishes he could will away the poison in Peter's lungs. But he can't, and for know, he knows that this will have to be enough.

He knows that it's going to be okay, and for now, that is enough.)

* * *

It's not, exactly, that Peter is young. Because young or old, May would still worry. Would still feel this tight, underwhelming feeling of drowning in the fog of her head.

It's that—god. She can't put a word to this feeling.

She can't—she can't just attach something to it, because it sticks in her head, weird and detached and not quite foggy but not quite clear, either. Somewhere in-between, like a charcoal drawing, not quite smudged, but not crisply done, either.

How do you love something away?

How do you describe how much it hurts when you see someone you love hurt, and all you can do is feel that sinking feeling in your chest and know—you know so painfully, so horribly—that you will never understand how much it hurts.

You will never understand who it feels, to fall from a height onto a car and break your arm and bruise your back and stand up and keep moving until you get somewhere you feel safe.

You will never know what it's like to feel a hand on your throat or a warehouse on your back.

You will never know what it's like to bear what feels like the world on your chest.

You will never know how it feels to be someone else, and that hurts her the most, that she can't even empathize, all she can do is sit by Peter's side and hold his hand and be there when he wakes.

You can't love away the bad.

You can't even fully comprehend the bad, when your kid is on your couch and his breathing is carefully controlled and he grins and makes a joke even as you search desperately for the address of the nearest hospital and drive him there after convincing your neighbour to lend you their car.

She can't understand, as she sits in the waiting room, how it would feel if Peter died before her, like Ben.

God. May never wanted to understand grief. She never wants to understand it more, she doesn't want to feel it again just so she knows and maybe that's selfish but she doesn't want the bad things to come any longer, she just wants to feel certain, the type of certainty that a six year old feels when she wakes her parents in the night and says I had a nightmare but they are there and there is a certainty that nothing bad will happen because there are people to protect her.

Except May's the parent here and Peter's the child and she doesn't know how to help him. She doesn't know how to make the feeling in her chest go away.

She doesn't even—she's not even worried about him now. Because she knows he'll be alright. Even if it takes a week or two or five, he'll be alright, by the end of it.

She's scared for when he doesn't come back, scared for when he fights a fight that he can't win because he knows that it's right, and she won't see it coming because people are never prepared for these sorts of things, even when they try their hardest to be.

Pain is never something you expect. The things that hurt the most, you never really anticipate.

May doesn't want to be hurt again.

(But she's willing to be hurt, if it means that she can keep loving her kid as much as she does.)

* * *

"I must say," Scott Lang says, sitting down next to Peter, "I was hoping to taste eggnog for the first time here, but there is none, and I am sorely disappointed."

Peter perks up, shooting a glance at Mr. Lang as he asks eagerly, "You haven't tasted eggnog either?"

"Hey, you too?" Mr. Lang grins, bumping his shoulder against Peter's as he admits, "Everyone else is all horrified and like 'what!' but it's really not that uncommon, right?"

"Right," Peter agrees, "I mean, where do you even buy eggnog packets? Are they something that have to be homemade? I feel like everyone has a grandma or someone old who made it for them."

"Egg-zactly," Mr. Lang agrees, grinning sharply, "I mean, it's just ridiculous. If you want me to drink some, give me some, right?"

"Yes," Peter agrees, nodding empathetically, "I really want to taste it, but I'm kind of scared to, because everyone is making it out to be a really big deal? And I don't want to be disappointed if it tastes terrible or something, y'know?"

"Oh, for sure," Mr. Lang nods, mimicking Peter's bobble head movement, "I mean, what if it actually tastes really awful and everyone else just has terrible taste?"

Peter shudders, "That would be terrible. And then to avoid it getting too awkward, I'd have to pretend that I liked it or something—"

"But then what if they offer you more?" Mr. Lang points out, "Honesty, man, you've got to be honest."

Peter slumps, "But what if it tastes like cement?"

"Then you say so," Mr. Lang squares his shoulders, "And you face the truth with dignity and honour."

"I don't need dignity and honour," Peter says, "I need to avoid awkwardness."

"Lying is awkward," Mr. Lang says, which he seems to understand doesn't make sense but refuses to take back even when Peter shoots him a Look and Mr. Lang has the decency to redden a bit. "Okay, yeah, fine, that was a bit of a parent thing to say, I guess."

"It was a lot of a parent thing to say," Peter grins a bit, "Cassie must be proud."

Mr. Lang groans, "I have to sneak some snacks out for Cassie."

Peter raises an eyebrow, "Why do you have to sneak them out?"

"Well," Mr. Lang pours himself a cup of hot chocolate, adding a bit more whipped cream than strictly necessary before continuing, "She couldn't come because she was at a friend's place, and if I obviously took sweets, Stark would probably do something stupid like send a lot of expensive treats to my place."

Peter thinks about it for a moment before conceding that, yeah, that would probably happen. "But he'd still know even if you snuck them out, right?"

"If you sneak stuff out, it sends a message," Mr. Lang jabs a finger at Peter, "A message saying do not question this, it is a one time thing."

Peter raises an eyebrow, and Mr. Lang slumps.

"Yeah, I know. But I have gone through this song and dance with Stark too much to not try and avoid being sent ridiculously pricy food."

Peter hides a smile behind a gingerbread man, "Did he send you the shaved ice?"

"With the red bean sauce and hundreds of flavours to add on?" Mr. Lang shakes his head, "It's ridiculous, how much he did. Just for one birthday party, too."

"It's his way of showing affection," Peter hums.

Mr. Lang laughs, "He doesn't need to, though."

"He likes playing with Cassie," Peter shrugs, "And you're cool, too."

"Thanks, man."

Peter nods for a moment before he asks, "So, have you caught up with the new Case Closed arc?"

"Have I. The whole RUM ordeal? I totally thought that it was the teacher."

"I'm still not convinced that it wasn't the teacher! I mean, I know that Bourbon had the conversation on the phone with the police dude but the teacher was clearly shown with a list—"

* * *

May's still asleep when Peter wakes, foot numb, back stiff.

They'd fallen asleep on the couch, and the laptop is closed on the coffee table, so May must have turned it off sometime after Peter fell asleep.

Maybe she'd even finished watching, but when he glances down and sees the way the laptop still hangs just a bit open, like she didn't fully push it down, just sort of nudged it in a closed position without finishing the whole job, he finds it unlikely.

It's already light out, sunlight bleeding in through cracks in the blinds, and Peter wonders how late they've slept in.

He moves a bit, trying to wake up his foot a bit, and May stirs along with the sensation of pins-and-needles, making a sleepy noise against his arm before sitting up, squishing is foot along the way before shifting her weight off, mumbling a half-awake sorry.

"It's fine," Peter says, wincing as he moves his foot in a circle, ankle buzzing. "Morning."

"Does it have to be?" she asks, and laughs a bit, a quiet thing, like she hasn't fully collected the energy necessary to make it any bigger.

"Come on," Peter stands, groaning when his the feeling in his feet tries to normalize again, "We can make pancakes."

"Tempting," May yawns and wraps her blanket around herself, bright blue, with a design that tries to look fair-isle knit and with a chocobo pattern on it. "What are the contenders?"

"Normal pancakes," Peter throws a blanket over his shoulders, "Or sweet potato pancakes."

"Oh, those are good," May hums and shuffles to her feet, "We like those?"

"Maybe," Peter grins at her, and she smiles back, a bit tired, "Think we should change?"

"Must we?" May moans.

"Come on," Peter puts his hands on his hips, "Am you the parent here, or am I?"

May squints at him, "Do you want to be the parent here? I am willing to relinquish my power for one day."

"You're impossible," Peter says, trying to mimic that patented Parent Voice.

"Nice try, squirt," May says, waking up a bit more, laughing as she reaches over to ruffle Peter's hair. "Alright, fine, you've convinced me. If I must, I will put on clothes that aren't nearly as soft and warm and comfortable and—"

"I know what you're doing," Peter cuts in, too amused to really argue, "And fine, you've made your point. We can stay in our pyjamas."

She makes a little yes motion, making a fist and pulling her elbow back.

Peter opts to make the pancakes, and when May offers to help, he sends her away on no uncertain terms (and stay out of the kitchen! We have onerule for the kitchen. Literally just one, he huffs, and she rolls her eyes, why is this one rule that I'm never allowed to use anything but the fridge?), so May is left to find other chores.

She cleans the living room while he makes the food, opening the blinds after she cleans off all the dust, the living room adopting a soft, golden hue as dust hangs suspended in the air, easier to see in the sunlight.

Somewhere between putting all their books on the shelves and throwing their clothes into the washing machine (I meant to do it yesterday May admits guiltily while Peter laughs at her), May starts singing Bohemian Rhapsody and before he knows it, Peter is yelling along with her, mumbling in the parts that he doesn't know.

While the water boils to soften the sweet potatoes, Peter decides to search up the lyrics but gets waylaid watching the trailer for the new Mary Poppins remake (again).

"I just really nervous and excited," he says when May teases him, "I mean, it's Emily Blunt and Lin-Manuel Miranda, so I think that it'll be fine, but for another thing, it feels kind of like Disney's making a cash grab and those never go well but it's based on the book series so it might go well but—"

She chucks a throw pillow at his head so Peter never really gets to finish his worry-ramble. Which is fine because worry-rambles aren't really the best thing to do, but obviously he fakes offence and they take a few seconds to pillow fight before Peter goes to check on the sweet potatoes.

They're still hard, so he goes back to find that May has hijacked his computer and is searching for songs on his youtube account and May, what if my recommendations are weird?

"Oh, relax," May huffs, "My taste in music is fine."

"Well, sure, but—"

Then Annie Lennox's cover of I Put a Spell on You comes on and he feels kind of ridiculous for ever doubting May.

They eat the sweet potato pancakes on the couch, opting to watch another movie (is this too lazy? May wonders. We're in our pyjamas, Peter points out, today's just a lazy day. She huffs at him and points out that she's cleaned the house, done the laundry, and Peter has cleaned the kitchen, so, no, we've been super productive and he concedes with a laugh).

She sticks her elbow on his shoulder and he puts his feet under her legs to keep his toes warm and there's something ridiculously normal to it all.

They watch Ralph Breaks the Internet and Peter had expected it to be terrible except it's actually really good and cute and?

"It was so good," he gapes as May laughs, "What. I thought that it was going to be horrible and just a ploy to get cash but it was actually—it was actually great."

"It was really good," May agrees, "You know, watching this makes me want to watch the first one and—"

"Yes," Peter says, and pulls his feet out from under May's legs so that he can sit in a cross legged position. "Snacks?"

"We should eat lunch soon," May hums.

"Chicken nuggets and plum sauce," Peter declares, standing and stretching a bit.

May nods, "Stretch break while it cooks?"

"Sounds good," Peter says, so May pulls out the yoga mats and Peter pulls out the chicken nuggets.

It's a lazy sort of day, sure, but Peter is moving and alive and it's warm all the same, in his little slice of perfection.


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N:** Hey, guys. So this fic is done. I'm sad to see it go, but it was its time. Also, for some reason FF won't let me use my italics so if it feels weird, that's why. (Also, I know that I don't really reply to reviews anymore, but I read them all, and I adore you guys. Seriously. Thank you so much for sticking with me for this fic.)

* * *

He is ash and dust on a titanic planet, aptly named, blood red air and gasping for breath that he won't need because he's crumbling, he's nothing, he's—

Tony's hands on him, desperation in his throat, feeling his body uselessly try to stitch itself back together, breaking faster than it can mend—

Crimson skies and golden light and a landscape the colour of a stop sign, the earth beneath him and rocks tracing his spine—

The world is pale blue when he wakes, still dark, early, the bed cold and his breath rattling in his chest like a firecracker popped.

The lines of the wood supporting the mattress of the top bunk above him are dark, familiar as his eyes readjust to the light (or lack thereof) and he takes a moment to just stare at it, trying to catch his breath again, counting in his head, five, four, three, two, one, exhale, five, four, three, two, one, inhale, five, four, three…

He's still a bit tired, but the temptation to sleep eludes him, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like saran wrap to skin.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

He climbs out of bed, taking the time to make it, smoothing his pillow and smoothing his blanket to the corners before turning down the top so that he can see the pillows, smoothes it one more time, feels a bit more alive, a bit more awake.

He notices, now, that there's a bird chirping outside, and he glances for it as he opens the window to filter in the dim blue morning light but Peter doesn't see it.

It's fine, he thinks, shaking the cobwebs from his mind as he tries to remember what to do. Catches sight of the bright pink sticky note on the door (a gift from MJ), scribbled in sharpie, DRINK WATER! with the usual slanted scrawl, and his body moves on autopilot to find his water bottle, which should be on his desk but isn't, for some reason.

He peers at his web shooters, smooth and shiny sitting on his desk and for a moment he thinks… no. He doesn't need them, right now, doesn't need the safety they provide as a placebo at times, he's fine, he's good, and Peter walks on.

(It feels good, somehow.)

Ah. His water bottle's on the balcony. He must have drank it as Spider-man and…

Well.

Oops?

It's empty, so he moves to the kitchen, even though he usually prefers to stay in his room while it's still dark out like this, when it's early morning, silent and still and he can take all the time in the world to slowly, fully wake.

May is already up when he goes out, he can make out golden light peeking from beneath her bedroom door, so he tries not to think too much of it when he knocks and, after a soft come in, moves into May's bedroom.

She's still in her pyjamas, curled in the corner over her bed, reading Shannon Hale's Princess Academy, which she sets aside when Peter enters.

"Morning," May raises an eyebrow, smiling, "This isn't breakfast in bed, I suppose?"

"No," Peter laughs at her exaggerated groan. "Just here for company."

"I'm great company," May agrees, laughing when Peter rolls his eyes at her. "Alright, kiddo. What's up? We need to talk?"

Peter takes a moment to think about it, and then he shakes his head and pulls May's blanket over his chest, "I had a nightmare."

"Ah," May runs her fingers through his hair, "Want to talk about it?"

"I just," Peter closes his eyes. Focuses on her touch, lets it ground him, "I just wanted to be with you, that's all. Or someone. Fengchi said it's not good to be alone."

"It isn't," May agrees, "I'm proud of you for choosing to come to me."

Peter grins at her.

May grins back, "So, plans?"

Peter twists his lips to the side. Thinks about it. Then, leaning into May's touch, "Read to me?"

"You ask so much of me," May teases, the edges of her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "So demanding."

Peter laughs.

May clears her throat, and then, light, lilting as she goes back to the beginning, "Miri wakes to the bleating of a sleepy goat…"

She reads to the end of the fourth chapter, bookmarking it neatly and moving her hand from the top of Peter's head, where she had run her fingers absentmindedly, as though she hadn't really noticed herself what she was doing.

The light has turned from faded blue to golden white, peeking in through the gaps in May's blinds, and when she opens them, the room brightens, her lightbulb deemed unnecessary.

"Pancakes?" May asks, kissing Peter on the cheek.

"Delivery?" Peter asks hesitantly.

May scrunches up her nose, "Definitely not homemade."

He breathes a dramatic sigh of relief and she swats at him playfully. The pancakes come with a half-awake teenager who May tips well, smiling at them wearily as she says, "Awesome pjs. Wish I could be wearing mine."

May shakes her head, "Your job have a dress code?"

"Yeah," A dreamy sigh, "Man, can you imagine delivering food in a onesie? I'd be so warm and comfy."

"It's the dream," May agrees sagely.

They have a short conversation that somehow ends in the girls exchanging numbers, and then May returns to Peter with a box of those fancy Japanese soufflé pancakes in hand.

They eat on paper plates, cross legged on the balcony, watching the world begin to wake, people spilling from buildings and cars and chatter filling the streets as cars inch by below.

The sky is blue and the light is gold and the landscape is too many colours to list, and Peter is solid, solid and real and this is good, he thinks, as he leans into May and rests his head on her shoulder, enjoying his pancake.

And this isn't stable, he knows, this peacefulness, this stillness of the morning, but he has a solid foundation, he has hands waiting to pick him up if he falls, if the world falls beneath him, and he thinks, he's alright.

"I love you," he says to May, mouth full.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she answers, mouth, equally full, because she is a total hypocrite like that.

"I looove you," Peter repeats, a bit louder and more obnoxiously, just to make her laugh.

He succeeds, and May tweaks his nose, "I love you too, you obnoxious brat."

He laughs at her, she laughs back, and in the slow wake of the day, he's alright.

* * *

When Peter arrives at school, Flash is leaning against the lockers, bleary eyed and weary as he holds a tray of paper cups with plastic lids in hand.

Flash is rumpled in formal attire, a black button-down and dress pants meaning that he hadn't the time to change after work that morning, and Peter takes a mental note to be there later when MJ inevitably teases him and calls him Mr. Thompson.

"Hot chocolate," He mumbles when Peter walks up to him, fingers hovering over the cups before picking one with HC scrawled on top with white chalk and handing it over.

Peter accepts the cup with a cautious sip, noting the empty space that means MJ has probably already taken her tea and the white hot chocolate for Ned. "It's orange flavoured!" He exclaims, delighted.

"Yeah, you disgusting creature," Flash wrinkles his nose, "I knew that you'd like it."

"It's heaven," Peter melts into the drink.

"It's orange and chocolate," Flash adopts a pained expression, "It's an abomi—I mean, it's just so—gross. I'm sorry."

Peter shakes his head at Flash, who has the look of one who can never agree but is forced to tolerate his friend's strange tastes.

Orange flavoured hot chocolate, he sees Flash mouth to himself, incredulous, as though he's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he just bought such a thing.

"Look at it this way," Peter says, gingerly tucking his hot chocolate in the crook of his elbow so that he can pull out a textbook, "It's an actual thing, right? Which means that lots of people like it."

"Weird people like you," Flash takes the hot chocolate from Peter's elbow, and Peter shoots him a grateful look as he puts his textbook between his knees to lock his locker again.

"Well, what did you get?" Peter raises an eyebrow.

"Coffee," Flash raises an eyebrow, "Like a sane, normal person."

Peter wrinkles his nose, "Black?"

"Yes," something defensive creeps into Flash's voice. They've had this conversation before, and he knows how it will end.

"And you think that I'm the weird one," Peter takes the cup back, "You study for the chemistry test?"

"Not enough," Flash sighs despairingly, "Let me guess, you know everything and plan to ace it, looking effortless all the while?"

"No-o," Peter pouts, "You got enough sleep, right?"

"Sleep is for the strong," Flash answers, a distant look on his face, "And I am very weak."

Peter shoots him an unimpressed look.

Flash holds up the tray of drinks in response, pointing at his coffee.

"You need to take care of yourself," Peter stresses.

"Yes, mom," Flash rolls his eyes as they walk into the classroom, where Ned is already waiting, having come early to study with MJ. "Okay, poll: is Peter's orange flavoured hot chocolate gross or great?"

"Great," Ned says immediately, "But gross."

"Toeing the line," MJ raises an eyebrow.

"Wimp," Flash says accusatorially.

Ned inclines his head, "I mean, I wouldn't drink it, but it's a pretty nice idea. I mean, people already like orange with chocolate, so why not orange with hot chocolate?"

"Because it's a drink," Flash says.

"Gross," MJ says decisively, "Just like all of you."

Peter laughs at her, "You always say that."

"And it's always true," she agrees. Takes a sip of her tea. Pauses. Raises a smooth eyebrow at Flash, "You're not so bad."

"So bribery works with you, too, hm," Flash says with a note of amusement.

MJ inclines her head, says nothing.

Peter drags a chair over and drops down next to Ned, "How's studying?"

"I love it. We just spent twenty minutes figuring out moles."

"Oh," Peter scrunches his nose, "Great. Isn't it just, like, a unit of measurement?"

"But, like, a specific number," Flash sits across from Peter, "Like a dozen, right?"

"Yeah," Ned nods, "So I'm brain dead and we haven't even started the test yet. How about you two? How's your morning been?"

"Maybe it's because I'm only half awake," Peter sighs, sipping his hot chocolate, "But this is really good."

"There was this drunk girl who told me that my hair was 'goals'," Flash says, looking uncertain of how to feel about that, "Then she ordered coffee with seven espresso shots."

MJ whistles, "And you gave it to her?"

"She downed, like, half of it in one standing," Flash answers, looking queasy, "I was a bit worried, but she said that she was a med student."

"And she was drunk this early?" Ned scrunches up his nose.

"Maybe not," Flash allows, "But she acted like Peter."

"Ouch," Peter pouts, pressing a hand to his chest, "I don't act drunk."

"Well…"

"I mean…"

"You kind of do," MJ says unapologetically, stacking up her feet on Peter's legs.

"Do not," Peter pouts.

Whistling from Flash. Side glances from Ned. A flat stare from MJ.

Okay.

Fine.

"Maybe just a little," Peter allows.

Flash, Ned, and MJ exchange amused little glances, "Whatever you want to say," Flash teases.

Peter sighs and shakes his head, knowing that he is defeated. "So, moles?"

"Trying to change the subject?"

"Shush. Oh, Ned, Flash got you hot chocolate, too."

"Not orange?" Ned asks, looking queasy at the thought.

"White hot chocolate," Flash hand it over, "Because you are the more sensible one."

"We're all more sensible than Mr. Spandex over here," MJ answers, jerking a thumb at Peter.

"Spandex?" Flash's forehead creases.

MJ exchanges glances with Peter, blinking, "I thought that you were going to tell him."

"I was," Peter hisses, "After exams. I didn't want to distract him from school."

"Oh my god," MJ groans, tipping her head back, "I cannot believe you."

"I can't believe you," Peter buries his face in his hands.

"We haven't told him yet?" Ned demands, "I thought we agreed on this, like, last time you came in through my window!"

Peter shakes his head mournfully. Peeks at Flash. And then pulls back his sleeves. "Hi, Flash," He sighs, "I'm Spider-man."

Flash stares.

Opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Holds up a finger.

Lowers it.

"You crashed my dad's car," He finally says, "What the fuck, man."

"I'm still fifteen!" Peter exclaims defensively, "I don't have my driver's license yet."

"But you crashed my dad's car!" Flash throws his hands in the air, "Dude! I'm still working to pay that off right now!"

Peter winces, "I'm sorry. I thought Mr. Stark reimbursed you?"

Flash stares, "That was real?"

"Yes!" Peter yelps, "You didn't accept it?"

"You're the reason my dad got that shifty 'you-won-a-car' thing in the mail?"

"It wasn't shifty!" Peter protests.

"He recycled it! It screamed 'scam'! Why would Tony Stark let us win a car when we never entered any contests for this? Why would Tony Starkrandomly hand out cars? Why is that even logical, Peter?"

"Mrs. Potts is going to be so mad," Peter buries his face in his hands, "She told Mr. Stark that SHIELD could have handled it better, but he insisted it would be funny if—"

"What is my life," Flash moans.

"I feel you, man," Ned pats his shoulder.

"Okay, then," MJ says brightly, "Back to moles."

* * *

He's on the edge of the rooftop, about to stop a drug deal, when the dude who he thought was selling drugs pulls out a gun and says, "Look, man, we had a deal."

The dude who he thought was buying drugs pulls out a gun as well (and Peter's brain is all ! What is going on?) and snaps, "I didn't agree to sell drugs. We can't just ruin kids like that. I agreed to rob a bank with you, I didn't agree to sell drugs in my nephew's neighbourhood."

Ooh.

Oooh noooo.

It's Mr. Aaron who is not agreeing to sell drugs and he has a gun pointed at him but also he i gun and what does Peter do?

"Yo, man," Peter pulls the gun from the drug seller dude who he decides is the bad guy in this scenario, "Didn't you see all those Captain America PSAs as a kid? Don't do drugs, They're totally not cool."

The drug guy charges, Peter dodges, trips him, elbow strikes between the shoulder blades and the dude is out like that.

Wow, training with Mr. Stark really paid off.

Focus, Peter.

"Um," Peter holds out a hand and pulls the gun from Mr. Aaron, trying to deepen his voice, "Was this gun, like, legally obtained?"

"What are you doing with your voice?" Mr. Aaron asks.

Peter groans and tips his head back, "I'm trying to disguise it, Mr. Weapons Dude."

"You sound ridiculous," Mr. Aaron says.

Peter crosses his arms over his chest, "I am feeling so attacked right now."

Mr. Aaron raises his hands, "Just saying."

"Can you—" Peter sighs, "Can you not do crime? You're not a bad guy?"

A wry smile from Mr. Aaron, grin crooked as he says, "Even good guys have to find some way to make a living, kiddo. I've got a nephew to care for, too."

"Then…" Peter chews on his lower lip, "Didn't you ever want to do something that wasn't crime?"

Mr. Aaron squints at him, "What's up, Spider-man? Why so invested in my life?"

Peter scrambles for an excuse that isn't 'I-eat-dinner-with-you-biweekly'. "You, um, you said that you had a nephew? And you didn't want to sell drugs? And you told me about the Vulture. So you're not a bad guy. And I don't want you to do… bad… things…"

Wonderful speech. So rousing. 10/10.

"Look, kid," Mr. Aaron sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets, "Sometimes people just do stuff like this. And even if I wanted a job, I spent the time that I should've spent in college acting as a bodyguard for some underground people. All my skills are more suited to doing—y'know—illegal stuff."

Peter sits on the ground, cross legged, and sets his chin in his hands as he tries to figure out what to say.

A quiet laugh, and then Mr. Aaron drops down beside him. "You're pretty young, aren't you."

Peter groans, "I'm not that young."

"Still in high school or near there, I bet," Mr. Aaron says, "You're doing an alright job, Spider-man. I just don't need saving."

Peter buries his face in his hands, "I don't want to catch you one day, Mr. Criminal."

A moment of silence, and then, "Am I making you have to decide?"

"No? Yes. I will, if I have to, I just—it feels not-good."

"I'm just one guy," Mr. Aaron shrugs, "No big deal. If that makes you feel any better, I chose this. It's not like I'm a victim."

"If you could go back in time," Peter asks, "Would you choose the same path? Or would you go to college and try to get a normal job?"

"There's no point in regretting, kid."

"So you would," Peter says, unburying his face and turning to stare at Mr. Aaron, "There. That's why I want to help you."

A quiet huff of laughter, "You're ridiculous."

Peter gestures at himself, "I'm wearing this, aren't I?"

"Fair," Mr. Aaron pats him on the head, "I'll try, kiddo. But no promises."

"Okay," Peter says reluctantly. "Tell your nephew I said hi."

A blink, and another laugh, "Alright, Spider-man."

So Peter ties up the drug dude, leaves a note, tells Mr. Aaron to call the police, and swings off.

* * *

He finds Miles sitting on the edge of the balcony, sketchbook in hand, scattered pastels beside him.

"This is so dangerous," Peter sighs as he swings his legs over the rails to sit down beside Miles, only vaguely comforted by the fact that if worst comes to worst he has his webs on his wrists.

Miles laughs and pulls his headphones onto his neck, tilting his head at Peter, "I see you finally escaped Mrs. Joyce and Uncle Aaron's attempts at making you like eggplant."

Peter shudders, "I gave up after they added it to the spinach and cheese tarts. Spinach and cheese tarts! Why would you ever ruin that with eggplant?"

Miles snickers, "You're so weird. I can't believe you like spinach."

Peter huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, "Spinach is a perfectly delicious vegetable."

"Still a vegetable," Miles shudders.

Peter props his chin on Miles' shoulder and nods at the sketchbook, "Do I get to peek?"

A beat of hesitation, before Miles says, "I deciding which of two pictures I want to put up. I like the first one better, but I feel like the second would look cooler with spray paint, the first one's kind of, y'know, made for pastels."

Peter makes a gimme motion with his hands and Miles rolls his eyes, because they both know that never works.

"You can see it just fine while I hold it," Miles teases, and Peter pouts at him but doesn't argue.

He's seen Miles' stuff before, it's all stuff that says something that Miles can't put in words, really bright and bold and saying it's gotta be said. Which is why he doesn't really know how to react when, "It's Spider-man."

"Yeah," Miles nods, "What do you think?"

Peter's brain is still kind of stuck on the fact that it's Spider-man. "Why is it Spider-man?" his mouth blurts instead of saying something that even vaguely resembles intelligent.

Miles raises an eyebrow, "Spider-man's cool. He looks out for the little guys, you know? He's down to earth, unlike the Avengers."

"The Avengers are cool," Peter's mouth says because his brain is crashing.

"Yeah, but," Miles shrugs, "Guess I'm just more of a Spidey fan than an Avengers, fan, y'know? He does—he does small stuff."

"And small stuff is important," Peter mumbles, nodding. "I guess that I just—Spider-man just does little stuff, you know?"

"Well, he helps the Avengers sometimes," Miles adopts a somewhat defensive expression which is vaguely hilarious, "But Spider-man—you know, he dresses up and fights people and stuff, sure, but at the end of the day, I think, he's just a guy who wants to do what he thinks is right. He can do all these other things, can choose to only focus on big things, but he helps old ladies across the street and helps kid reach things they can't and stupid little things like that. And that's—that's really cool."

"He's just a normal guy, then," Peter says, "Just a normal guy with powers."

"Exactly," Miles grins, "That's what I like about him. That most of the stuff he does, anyone can do, if they choose to. I saw a video compilation once of Spider-man just picking up trash for, like, an hour."

Peter remembers that video compilation. MJ sent it to him with the message are you serious and Peter had tried to ignore the fact that he was dividing the garbage and recycling at McDonalds as he was reading her text.

"So you like him because he picks up trash?"

"Because he chooses to when he doesn't have to," Miles shrugs, "I like that he goes out of his way to make people happy even when he won't get that much credit for it. Like, I saw him buy a girl a rose once because her date turned out to be a jerk and stay with her for a bit. He just does—small things like that, and doesn't expect anything in return. It's inspiring."

"Oh," Peter says, voice small, "Thanks, man."

Miles raises an eyebrow, "Um, okay? Anyways, which drawing do you think would look better on a wall?"

So, it's the little things. Peter used to think that the little things didn't matter, that it was the big things, but—maybe little things are alright, too.

Maybe a new big bad will come. Maybe doing little things doesn't matter too much. But if he can make someone smile—well, maybe it's worth everything, just to make one person's bad day a little bit less bad.

* * *

It's a soft morning when he wakes. Rain dripping outside, the sky a blurry sort of grey, but pale blue light bleeding through the blinds nevertheless.

The kid's asleep on the sofa, still, which is odd because he's an early riser but maybe not so odd, considering that he had come over last night after a panic attack.

(May's in Europe with Mrs. Potts, Peter had mumbled, shifting in his oversized sweater and May's pink leather boots, so I thought that I could stay the night?

Tony, hands in his pockets, head bowed, can't say no, just jerks his chin and says was planning on watching a movie anyways even if he was planning nothing of the sort.)

Peter stirs while Tony's flipping through the pages of Howl's Moving Castle, a slow kind of stirring, joints creaking and toes curling like he's learning how to use his body properly again.

"Morning, Mr. Stark," Peter yawns like a cat, arms going up, chest going forward, it's a motion that involves his whole body, animated yet still.

"Morning, kid," Tony marks his page and sets his book down, "How we feeling for breakfast?"

Peter hums, "Maybe something simple?"

Peter makes oatmeal while Tony washes some blueberries, back-to-back but the kitchen is big enough that they aren't crammed into each other's space.

They eat on the sofa, start watching that new show She-Ra while Peter puts a spoonful of red sugar in his oatmeal.

"It's good," Peter whispers, moving to Tony and holding out the bag of sugar.

"Oatmeal is bland and gross," Tony whispers back, somewhat offended.

Peter rolls his eyes so Tony takes the bag and puts in the sugar. Tastes his oatmeal.

"Fine," he admits, "It's not bad."

Peter grins and curls up next to Tony, resting his head on Tony's shoulders as they watch, rain pattering outside, still in the quiet of the morning.

* * *

"Hey, Spidey," Maya grins and leans over the counter, "Here for some ice cream?"

"And the pleasure of your company," Peter winks, "Where's Robin."

"Dying," comes a voice from behind to counter. Peter peers over the edge and Robin, lying on a yoga mat, waves wearily at him.

Peter waves back, "Are you okay?"

"No," Robin says, muffled by an arm thrown over her face. "I thought that exercising with Maya would be fun."

"It was fun," May crosses her arms over her chest.

"It was torture," Robin squints at Peter, "Please tell me that exercise isn't fun for you, too."

Peter shrugs, "I mean, yeah, it burns, but it's a good kind of burn because—"

"Stop," Robin holds up a hand, "If you like exercising, your opinion isn't valid."

"Rude," Peter huffs.

"Totally," Maya agrees, and pretends to step on Robin, who shrieks and rolls off the mat. "Get up, lazybones, we have a customer."

"Where?" Robin pops up, trying to smooth her hair.

"Me!" Peter says.

"Oh," Robin makes a face, "You always come here."

"That doesn't invalidate that I'm a customer, though?"

Robin makes a face at him and shakes her hand, "I mean, like, kinda? Just a little, though."

"Rude. Offended. You're officially blocked."

"This is a real conversation."

Peter holds up a hand in Robin's face, and repeats empathetically, "Blocked."

Maya clutches her sides and tries to hold back her laughter. (She fails. Epically. It's hilarious.)

"Okay, fine," Robin rolls her eyes, "Then I guess you don't want to hear about our new delicious shaved ice option with—"

"Unblocked," Peter bounces onto the counter, "Tell me!"

A laugh, and Robin begins describing their new shaved ice option, which eventually ends with Peter shoving a twenty dollar bill at her to buy the green tea shaved ice with red bean sauce on the side and mochi on top.

"Didn't we say that we'd give you free ice cream?" Maya props her chin on her hands and raises an eyebrow. It's a tired old argument, but they insist on going through it each time.

"You're part of the reason that I go to therapy," Peter shovels a spoonful into his mouth, "You should be paid."

"Just accept the money," Robin says, tossing her head a bit at Maya.

"But my honour!" Maya pouts, slinging her arm around Robin's shoulder, "You wouldn't want to date someone without honour, would you?"

"You're not Zuko," Robin rolls her eyes, "I think that I'll manage."

"But I'm your knight in shining armour!" Maya insists, "What kind of knight has no honour?"

"Accepting money is perfectly honourable," Peter says, "You've got to pay for your living expenses."

"We wouldn't be living if you didn't save us before," Maya puts her hands on her hips, "So of course we should give you free food!"

"You've helped save my life by sending me to therapy," Peter pops one of the little rice cakes into his mouth, "So you paid me back."

"Nooo," Maya groans, "It's not the same."

"It totally is," Peter grins and then changes the subject, "So how's business been?"

Maya brightens, "Oh, well, this girl who's really popular on Instagram started becoming a regular so business has been great! She's super sweet, and a business major, too. Actually, she was the one who recommended that we—"

* * *

May takes him to a lake, where by the shore there are giant rocks, each the size of Peter, rocks instead of sand and the water is cool and there's algae inside by he likes swimming in it anyways.

May dresses in a swimsuit with a skirt on it, Peter keeps his shirt on, and the only other people there are an old couple who live by the lake in retirement and their granddaughter, a teenager who strums on her guitar with her toes dangling in the water.

There are a few dragonflies hovering near the shore, but when Peter gets further from the shore and into deeper water, there aren't anymore insects that he can see, just the water.

It's a warm day and the sun is hot. May insists on putting on sunscreen and Peter groans but obliges. They swim for the better part of the afternoon and only get out when May's stomach starts to grumble, Peter laughing until his stomach grumbles in agreement.

The old couple trades them lasagna for their fried rice (we've been eating so much lasagna lately, the old woman groans dramatically as she shows them her fridge, which is filled with lasagna, my husband's been trying to make the perfect lasagna and I am sick of it. If he wants good lasagna, he can have it, but I' m dying for some variety) and they all eat on the rocks while the couple's granddaughter strums out a few chords of Here Comes the Sun.

"You like the Beatles?" May asks, tipping her head back.

The girl grins and strums a bit more, "Yeah, you?"

May starts singing, and, laughing, the girl joins in.

When they finish Here Comes the Sun, the girl starts to play some Fall Out Boy's Immortals (huge Big Hero 6 fan, she says, grinning as Peter joins in the off-beat yelling that their singing dissolves into), and they go through her repertoire before the day ends.

It isn't the beach. It isn't sandy shores and salty waves.

But it's close enough, and he likes it, all the same.

* * *

It's still not totally perfect, obviously. There's stuff that happens, life that occurs between the snaps of photos that Peter takes to put on his Instagram. Bad stuff doesn't stop.

But good stuff happens, too, stuff that makes Peter laugh, stuff he wants desperately to remember, so he pulls out his phone and remembers.

Life occurs in the photos, too, and he grows, in and between the clicks of his camera.

Click.

"For the last time, that is not how you fold a paper star!" The origami lady yells, waving her hands in the air.

"It is a perfectly fine experiment!" MJ hollers back, "I am allowed to experiment instead of blindly following instructions!"

"Please stop," Peter whispers, burying his face in his hands.

Fengchi pats his back comfortingly. Peter resists the urge to shrivel up and die. Instead, he sighs, laughs a bit, and pulls out his phone.

Click.

"Movie night," Ned says, bouncing a bit as he sets The Devil Wears Prada onto Mr. Stark's coffee table.

Mr. Stark comes in, rumpled, coffee in hand, a day-old shirt half tucked into bright pink pyjama pants with little cartoon rockets on them. He takes one look at the DVD and says, vehemently, "No."

"C'mon, Tony," Mrs. Potts grins, "It's not a bad movie."

"Nooo—" Mr. Stark takes a step back.

"It's all I brought," Ned says innocently, as though he weren't conspiring with Mrs. Potts to finally make Mr. Stark watch it after weeks of planning.

Mr. Stark turns to run, Mrs. Potts jumps on him to stop him, Ned is still waving the DVD in hand but about to be knocked over by the Stark and Potts duo, and Peter snaps a photo, just before the three hit the ground.

Click.

"You started eating the chips without me?" May asks, betrayed, pressing a hand to her chest.

Mr. Stark's eyes dart side to side, handful of chips halfway to his mouth. He drops the chips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "No," he says quickly, fingers still stained.

"Liar," May accuses, pulling the spoon from her cup of hot chocolate and brandishing it. "Fight me, you coward!"

Mr. Stark raises a chip and narrows his eyes, "It's on."

Peter snaps the shot as May's spoon breaks Mr. Stark's chip.

(Mr. Stark screams, horrified, and May begins to laugh maniacally.)

Click.

"We sounded amazing," Ned says, high five-ing Flash as he readjusts his guitar's position on his lap.

Flash grins as he flips to the first page of his new book of sheet music, "I can't believe MJ actually gave the book to me," he says, dreamily, "These arrangements sound amazing."

"From the top?" Ned asks.

Flash nods and sets his fingers in position, "From the top."

Peter takes a video, this time.

Click.

"Did you drink enough water this week?" Fengchi asks.

Peter shoots a guilty look at the water bottle on Fengchi's desk, which he had left the last appointment, and laughs nervously.

Fengchi sighs, "So, about the water balloon fight that you signed up for, it's in the field and—"

They make their way to a soccer field, where some of Fengchi's other patients are waiting, and Peter takes a photo right before Fengchi is hit by five water balloons.

Click.

"Can I take a picture?" Peter asks, breathless as he looks at Miles' finished work, the spray painted image of Spider-man on the wall of an old alleyway, paint cans still lying by Miles' feet.

"Oh, um," Miles reddens a bit as he scuffs at the ground with his toe, "It's not that good."

"It's perfect," Peter says, seriously.

Miles grins, and the shot is of him posing beside his art.

Click.

"Do I smell something burning?" Mrs. Joyce asks as she and Peter go into her apartment, groceries in hand.

"No," comes a muffled voice from the kitchen, followed by, "Don't come in."

Mrs. Joyce pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, "What did you do, Aaron?"

"Nothing!"

They eat burnt apple pie for dessert that night. Peter takes a photo just as Mrs. Joyce throws her slippers at Mr. Aaron's head.

Click.

"So you've been the amazing chef that Peter's been raving about," May smiles as she shakes Mrs. Joyce's hand, "I could use some tips, if you don't mind."

"You're banned from the kitchen," Peter says, grinning at Miles over the table, "You won't have anywhere to practice."

"I'm not that bad," May says, scandalized, "it's not like I'm Tony or anything."

"She can't be as bad as Uncle Aaron," Miles smirks at Peter.

Peter takes the shot of Miles yelping as Mr. Aaron kicks his shin under the table.

Click.

Peter meets Black Widow after Mr. Stark enlists her to teach him how to fight.

FRIDAY snaps the photo of him, a blur as she flips him on his back.

"Worth it," Peter groans, rubbing his back as Mr. Stark cackles in the background.

Click.

"Pillow fight," MJ says, tapping on her phone, sounding almost bored.

Ned laughs nervously.

Flash looks confused, "Is this, like an inside joke, or does she actually mean that we're going to have a pillow fi—"

The photo that Peter takes is an indistinguishable blur, Flash screaming as MJ surprise attacks him with a pillow. The picture doesn't catch MJ's war cry of triumph as she stands over Flash's writhing form, nor Ned's hysterical laughter.

Click.

MJ gets Peter with a pillow next, he only manages to see a blur of pink before his phone smashes against his nose, the photo taken by accident as Peter joins Flash on the floor, groaning while Ned tries to flee.

Click.

"Mini Avengers movie nights," Mr. Lang says as Peter gapes at the Avengers, all sitting in various cars the size and design of Hot Wheels. "No chance of being seen, and we get a big screen without needing—well, a big screen."

"I get to go to Avengers movie nights," Peter squeals, bouncing on his feet, "This is so cool!"

Mr. Lang grins, and snaps a photo of Peter riding on the back of an ant. This one goes on Spider-man's new Instagram, set up by MJ.

Click.

Peter in space, wide eyed with wonder as he presses two hands against a window, staring out. Taken by Gamora, this one is private, not up on any social media.

Click.

"Punch it again," the king of Wakanda says, fist against his mouth.

Shuri's cackling in the background as Peter flies across the room.

Click.

Mr. Stark's laughter as Peter bounces to his feet and shouts, "That was awesome! Again!"

The camera spins to Shuri's face, vaguely confused but intrigued, T'challa's horrified expression. "He doesn't have a concussion, does he?" T'challa asks.

Shuri pulls a whoopsie face and turns off the video as she goes to confirm that Peter doesn't have brain damage, he's just naturally weird and enjoys flying across rooms.

Click.

"I'm just interested in the physics of it," Peter explains to the Wakandan nurse as she checks his pupils, "And the best way to understand something is to see it in action."

"Or," Shuri says, burying her face in her hands, "You could just ask me instead of being blown across the room again."

"I could do that," Peter agrees in a voice that very much suggests he is not going to do that.

Click.

"Where did I go wrong?" Tony mourns to T'challa's mother, "How do you raise children with self-preservation?"

"The only reason that my son is alive is because of Shuri's technology." the Wakandan queen says wearily, "If you learn how, please, teach me."

From their spots hiding in the vents, Peter and T'challa exchange guilty looks while Shuri giggles.

Click.

Peter, in the middle of falling, May's arms around his neck as they tumble to the ground after returning from his trip to Wakanda.

Click.

MJ throwing a sandwich at Ned's head. Ned looks vaguely confused.

Click.

Flash poking Spider-man, "Dude, this isn't, like, actually spandex?"

"It's very technologically advanced," Peter says, suffering.

"It's very skintight," Flash crosses his arms over his chest. "You're not, like, the Nightwing of the superhero community, are you?"

"I told you," Ned says, triumphantly, in the background. "You're, like, Discowing."

"It's not that bad," Peter says.

Flash shoots him a pitying look.

Peter looks up to the sky, like he's begging for mercy, and MJ snaps the photo.

Click.

A candid shot of MJ sketching out Flash's face after he drops his loose-leafed binder and his papers are sent scattering everywhere, Ned cackling in the background.

Click.

May grinning at the camera, holding up two fingers in a peace sign, arm looped around Peter's shoulders. Peter's arm stretching forward to hold the phone as he takes the selfie.

Click.

Peter in a tree, screaming as he's assaulted by snowballs, half-melted snow in Ned's hair while Flash looks almost like a snowman. Taken by MJ.

Click.

A candid shot of May reading on the windowsill, soft orange light tracing her profile.

Click.

Iron Man and Spider-man in the sky, Spider-man screaming as he clings to Iron Man and Iron Man laughing. This one's a video, shaky as Pepper tries to suppress her laughter.

Click.

Peter has too many photos, now. (All of them are perfect.)


End file.
